


We Will Be Raised from the Ashes

by Jadedimage



Series: Malen’kiy Dya’vol, Bol’shoy Rot [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mattimir, My First AO3 Post, My First Fanfic, Non-Canon Relationship, Rare Pairings, Slow Burn, VladimirLives, What if Vlad found Matt after Nobu instead of Foggy?, shenanigans ensue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23606161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadedimage/pseuds/Jadedimage
Summary: Having left Vladimir Ranskahov to die in the tunnels, Matt had gone on to track down Leland Owlsley, and inevitably, Wilson Fisk himself; what he hadn’t expected to find in that warehouse, however, was Nobu.Injured, bleeding profusely, and more dead than alive, Matt staggered his way to his apartment, only vaguely registering the scent of vodka, cologne, and stale cigarette smoke that he had come to associate with the Russian he had thought dead before he hit the floor of his living room.Set immediately after the events of Season 1, Episode 9First two chapters Unbeta’d. <3 toRandoFando911for the beta in later chapters![Title is based, loosely, on the English translation of the Russian song Vladimir was singing in the tunnel -  We will be raised from the ashes (the tanks were rumbling in the field) Translation of the series title: Little Devil, Big Mouth]
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Vladimir Ranskahov
Series: Malen’kiy Dya’vol, Bol’shoy Rot [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1700131
Comments: 22
Kudos: 78





	1. Vladimir

**Author's Note:**

> I only have a vaguely cursory grasp of Russian; apologies if I butcher it completely. Translations provided in the end notes.
> 
> First eight chapters are character-specific; they graduate from this after chapter eight.

“I survived. How? That I will let you know when I figure it out. The only thing I can tell you is my men — what of them were left — seemed less inclined to leave me for dead than you were, mudak. Not that I blame you. I told you to go. I wanted to die a good death, not bleed out being dragged through alley. You had information; you would get revenge, for you, for me, for Tólja.”

Vladimir sighs softly, taking a slow drag off of his cigarette as he thinks of his brother. They had been inseparable since before he could remember. Always taking care of the other, though he would somewhat grudgingly admit that Anatoly was the better of the two of them in things of that nature. He was the more even-tempered of the two of them, more inclined to see reason, to be less stubborn. Sometimes, in some ways, he hated that about him. Always willing to compromise, always willing to take the path of least resistance.

Always, he was the light to his shadow. Not that his Tólja didn’t have plenty of dark-and-twisty spaces of his own; but most days, Vladimir was certain that all he, himself, was made of _were_ those dark-and-twisty spaces. But Anatoly tempered that. He made him better, simply with his existence. Now that that existence was ended, now that his brother was dead... he felt like a ship lost at sea with a broken rudder. He looks back down at the semi-unconscious form of the man on the couch from his perch on its back, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest with each weakened breath, his gaze slowly surveying the wounds he had, to the best of his own ability, stitched closed and bandaged. It was fortuitous, he thought, that he had been unconscious; his hands weren’t as good for fixing things as they were for breaking them. 

He wasn’t sure, really, why he was monologuing to a man he was fairly certain couldn’t hear him and would likely not remember a word he’d said if he could; then again, maybe that was _exactly_ why he was doing it.

”I woke up with wounds cared for, in safe house not far from here. It took me a while to be able to even move, much less get out of bed. I heard about fight on docks — I’m glad you decided to be pain in Nobu’s ass instead of mine, for once. Nobu, I think, is less pleased, if your wounds are anything to go by. But you and I, mudak, have unfinished business. This is why I don’t let you bleed to death on floor of shitty apartment.” 

Vladimir chuckles softly, the sound bordering on sardonic before he takes the last pull from his cigarette and extinguishes it, scrutinizing Matthew’s features a moment, his mask removed and cast aside on the floor with the rest of his costume.

“I suppose I could not stand and watch you die any more than you could do same with me. Not yet. Soon? Da, I think so. But for now, we focus on that zhirnyy ublyudok Fisk, hm? I think for now, you and I? We work together. We get our revenge. Then, then we will deal with each other.” 

Vladimir returns his gaze from the window to Matt as he lets out a soft groan, shifting position slightly on the couch as his eyelids fluttered, beginning to open, and Vlad smirks softly, watching him,

“Welcome back, asshole.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mudak - Asshole
> 
> Zhirnyy ublyudok - fat bastard


	2. Matt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt has finally woken up to find he had been snatched from certain death by... Vladimir...?
> 
> (I’m bad at chapter summaries T_T)

Matt was sure he had been hallucinating, or experiencing some sort of delusion or fever-dream from the blood loss; he was hearing voices. Well, no, _a_ voice. One that was quite unwelcome to his ears, the Russian accent that wrapped around the words, and the voice that spoke them, painfully familiar. 

_‘No, it couldn’t be. He’s dead... I have to be_ _dreaming.’_

Despite his insistence to the contrary, however, the growing sensation of pain in every single one of his wounds told him he was, in fact, wide awake. He left his eyes closed, kept his breathing controlled into the rhythm it had been in when his consciousness first drifted back into the world. He listened in silence, in stillness, as Vladimir spoke, almost more than once slipping back into the twilight world between consciousness and unconsciousness, the fluid rhythm of the words washing over him almost like a lullaby. But at the mention of Fisk, his interest sharpened like he’d been slapped across the face. So, that was it. That was why he was still alive. Fair enough. 

Matt opted, then, to drop his charade, shifting and letting out a very-much-legitimate groan of pain as he did so, watching as Vladimir looked down at him and smirked, and spoke, 

“Welcome back, asshole.” 

“You... are supposed... to be dead.” Matt replied; granted, the Russian had covered that, sort of. Something about a safe house. But it seemed to be the primary topic of interest to his brain, at the moment,

“If I were, you would be, too. You’re welcome, by the way.” Retorted the Russian, the sarcasm leeching into his voice accented by another, almost-smug smirk about his features. Prick.

“H-how did you—nngh—find me? What are you even doing here?” Matt questions, shifting again mid-sentence before realizing just how bad of an idea that was; instinct drove him to put himself into a less vulnerable position, to sit up, to stand, even, but wisdom prevailed, and he let himself lay almost bonelessly on the couch, trying not to pant like an over-exerted dog as the combination of the pain and blood loss took its toll, 

“Tupitsa, lie still before you tear stitches.” Came the scolding reply, a pause, and the other man spoke again, “One of my men. Saw you on roof not far from here. It was not difficult to follow trail of blood here.” 

Matt’s features shift in mild exasperation at the scolding and what he assumed was an insult — it was Vladimir, of course it was — before he sighed resignedly at his explanation. He had been sloppy, he knew he had, but it had taken every reserve he had to call upon just to get himself home. He wondered, briefly, why the other man even gave a shit if he tore his stitches, other than possibly having to redo them. The question was halfway to his mouth before he switched tack, opting for the easier, more obvious and possibly less explanation-requiring question that immediately followed the train of thought, 

“Fisk; you mentioned Fisk? He was there tonight, he tried to kill me after Nobu...” He pauses; after Nobu died. Jesus, did he really kill him? _Burned_ him to death? His eyes close as he swallows convulsively, half to fight down a wave of nausea.

“After Nobu became torch? Da, I heard.” Vladimir supplied, and Matt could feel him watching him, sense his momentary confusion before he heard him scoff, “Do you _actually_ feel guilty for killing him?” His tone was amused, mocking, god he wanted to punch that smirk he could practically feel in his voice right off of his face, “You do, don’t you?” A laugh, just as mocking as his tone, “A man tries to kill you, and you feel _guilty_ for killing him; you are bigger dumbass than I thought.”

“Fuck. You.” Matt grits out, his jaw tight with the anger that was quickly repelling the guilt, the disgust, “I _killed a man,_ you piece of shit! Normal people usually feel guilty about that sort of thing.” 

Another mocking laugh, though this one seemed also genuinely amused, “You, are not ‘normal people,’ Mask. So, what, throwing man off roof is ok? Breaking arm, leg, torturing him, putting him in coma — all ok. Putting on mask, costume, beating the shit out of people all night is good. But _killing_ is where you draw a line? If they die _later_ from injuries you inflict, that you are fine with?” An amused scoff, a shift in the air as Vladimir shakes his head.

The worst part was that the man had a point. No, that wasn’t the worst part; what was... was that he really had no real reply. The silence dragged out, he could feel him watching him as he processed, thought of a reply, dismissed it as ridiculous and tried again. Eventually, he winds up settling on,

“The Bible was pretty ambiguous when it came to breaking bones.”

A laugh met his words, genuine and amused, and he felt Vladimir shake his head as his hand came up to run down his face a moment,

“Ahh, Catholic boy. I should have guessed.” A soft chortle, “Explains why you like getting ass kicked so much.” 

“I don’t—“   
  
“You do.” Certain and firm came that remark, and Matt lets out a disgruntled sigh, trying again to sit up, and this time he was startled to feel an arm slide around him, initially trying to push it away and earning a cuff across the head for doing so, “Stop.” Vladimir ordered in annoyance, “Or next time I won’t be so nice.” He added, and the lawyer finally, albeit grudgingly, allows him to help him into an upright position, groaning softly as the change brought new aches, lit up new and already-agitated nerves. 

Matt’s hand comes up reflexively to run through his hair, only to freeze in the process of doing so. The mask. Shit. His eyes close a moment, 

“You took off my mask.” 

“Da.” 

“Why?” He restrained a sigh as Vladimir rolled his eyes,

“Two reasons. One, I was curious. The other? You had shit beaten out of you. I needed to check for wounds, tupitsa.” 

“... Fine.” Matt replied ungraciously, giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts before he turned his eyes to him, “Now, how about we discuss what we’re doing about Fisk so you can get the hell out of my apartment?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tupitsa - Dumbass


	3. Foggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt had disappeared. Again. Not answering his phone, /again/. Foggy hoped he was just curled up in bed with his latest fling to assuage the pain of Elena’s death, but perpetual worry was a bitch. Especially when you’re shit-faced drunk.
> 
> (Thanks to [ RandoFando911](%E2%80%9C) for the beta on this chapter! I was not confident in my Foggy)

Foggy had been drowning his sorrows at Josie’s, riddled with a level of guilt he felt sure qualified him to be at least half-Catholic. Elena’s death had wrecked him in a way he didn’t know he could be. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that poor woman’s lifeless body on that morgue table. Karen had tried, as always, to pull him out of himself, to reorient his focus. But god, he was just so... everything. Exhausted, grief-ridden, overwhelmed with guilt and anger and pain. He wanted to find Wilson Fisk and rip him apart with his fingernails. Was that possible? He wasn’t sure, but god if he wasn’t tempted to try it and see. He stumbles into Matt’s building, nearly falling as the door closes on his heel before he freed it, giving it what was surely a well-earned dirty look before ambling to Matt’s door, pounding on it, 

“Matt!” He pounds again, “C’mon Matt. I need to talk to you.” He pants softly, leaning against the doorframe, “We need to keep going, Matt. We gotta nail that bastard to the wall. We gotta make him _pay,_ for _Elena_... for everything!” He pounds again, then pauses as puts his ear to the door. He thought he heard movement, hushed voices. He frowns, “Matt!” He shouts, leaning into the door a bit, “Come on! I can hear you in —“ The door suddenly opened, Foggy faceplanting onto the floor with his slow reflexes from his intoxication. “Ow... That... that was rude, Ma—“ He breaks off. Those. Were not Matt’s shoes. Or feet. Matt, to his knowledge, never wore combat boots. He slowly looks up, the deeply scowling blond that was glowering down at him in _very_ clear irritation grabbing him by the collar and heaving him to his feet, “Whoa! Hey! Get off me!” He shoves ineffectually at him as he’s pulled inside, the door slamming shut, “Where the hell is Matt!?”

“Foggy.” Matt! His head whips round — oh god, too fast. Dizzy. He sways, and the man still holding him by the collar seizes the opportunity to shove him into the living room.

“You. Have annoying friend.” The — apparently Russian — man remarked to Matt, 

“He’s not annoying. He’s drunk, and worried.“ 

“Da. Annoying.” The Russian retorted, and Foggy finally regained the wherewithal to speak,

“Hey! Right here you know! Stop talking about me like I’m not even in the room. Who the hell is—“ Foggy stops mid-sentence as he finally looks at Matt, “Holy shit. What the hell happened to you!? Did you get hit by a damn car?!” He started for the couch, only to stop as his feet somewhat tangled in the discarded clothing on the floor, looking down and surveying them a moment before his eyes land upon the mask. No. No way. No _way_. “Matt..?”

“Foggy... let me explain.” Matt began, ignoring the half-annoyed, half-amused scoff from behind him where Vladimir had taken position, his arms crossed in front of his chest, “Shut up, Vlad. He’s my best friend, you know what that is, right?” 

“I say again - suck my dick, Mask. Or should I say _Matt_ now?” Vlad questioned, Foggy trying to piece together the information that just was _not_ computing in his brain, his hands making their way into his hair as he struggled for breath a moment,

“Y-you? You’re the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?”

“I was wrong. Friend is annoying and is dumbass.” 

“Shut the fuck _up,_ Vladimir!” Snapped Matt in reply, his growing annoyance evident in his tone more than his expression.

“Are you even blind?!” Foggy asked in clear confusion, choosing to ignore the glowering Russian in favor of the questions crowding into his brain; the footage he saw of the Devil flipping around, beating the shit out of people, how could someone that was blind just... _do_ that? Matt sighed softly, licking his lips in a thoughtful manner before he turned his eyes to him, 

“Yes, and no.” 

“Blind?” Vlad questioned, looking down at Matt in renewed interest. 

“Not. Now.” 

“What do you mean ‘yes, and no?’” Foggy snapped, irritation replacing confusion as it dawned on him just how many times his supposed best friend had lied to him just in the last _week,_ “You’re either blind or you’re not! What the hell is ambiguous about that!?”

“I can’t see, not... not with my eyes. But whatever the hell it was that blinded me? It... heightened my senses. I can smell, feel, hear, impressions and changes in temperature, heartbeat, air movement, and it gives me a general... sort of picture. Just one that happens to be the world on fire.” 

“Whoa whoa. Wait. You can hear heartbeats? ... That’s how you knew Karen wasn’t lying.” Foggy countered, and Matt nodded, mutely, “God, you just. Listened to her heartbeat?! You can’t go around just _doing_ that! It’s-it’s invasive and it’s _weird_!” He ignored the amused snort from the Russian, keeping his focus on Matt, “God, why did you never _tell_ me any of this!?”

“Pretty much... this. This is why.” Matt replied softly, “I wanted to, so many times, Foggy. But... I was afraid to. I didn’t know what you would think, how you would react. You’re my best friend. I didn’t want to jeopardize that.” 

“Too damn late, Matt! How many times just this _week_ did you lie to me?! To Karen?! Friends do _not_ lie to each other! Not like this! Not with something _this_ big! You’ve been lying to me since the day we _met_ and I’m just supposed to be _okay_ with that?!” Foggy shouts, his temper boiling over as it took every scrap of his self control not to just knock the shit out of him; the fact he looked like death the only thing that was really holding him back in the first place. He wanted to kill him, but he didn’t want to _kill_ him.

“...No... I-I don’t expect you to just be okay with it, Foggy... I just... I want.. hope... you can maybe try to understand, at least a little.” Matt replied, his soft-spoken words a stark contrast to Foggy’s shouts, 

“Understand?” Foggy laughs humorlessly, “Understand this.” He flips him off, “Nelson and Murdock? Are _done._ ” He storms out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him and stalking out into the sidewalk, stopping then and just trying to breathe. Jesus if this just hadn’t been the shit-covered cherry on top of the shit-sundae that had been this day.

He makes it a dozen or so yards from the building before he has to stop, the combination of the emotional roller coaster and the copious amount of alcohol prompting him to abruptly vomit into the nearest waste bin, dry-heaving a couple of times before the waves of nausea subsided, and he coughs a little as he staggers to sit on a stoop. What in the hell was he supposed to do now? He wondered, putting his face in his hands and letting himself just break down, just for a few moments. Then? Then he would start figuring that out.


	4. Vladimir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a drunk, pissed-off Foggy had stormed out of the apartment, a wounded, guilt-ridden Matt lay on the couch like someone had just run over his puppy, and an entirely-too-amused Vladimir can’t help but poke the Devil. Just a little. Ok, more than a little. The shithead had it coming.

Foggy — what the shit kind of name was that, anyway? — stormed out of the apartment after the two had, as far as he was concerned, argued like a married couple in which one of them was caught cheating with a whore in a back alley; in reality, the entire scene had amused him to no end. Foggy bitched, Matt pleaded, Foggy bitched more, Matt let him flounce off. Now the vigilante was lying upon the couch like a bump on a log - a phrase he had, actually, never understood until witnessing the brunet doing so, and then, it all made sense. A bump on a log basically laid there and refused to be moved. 

“Are you planning on going after wife, kissing and making up?” He questioned in feigned sincerity, though the mocking amusement in his voice was hardly subtle, 

“Don’t start.” Matt replied, his voice soft, resigned. Defeated. Ugh. Pathetic. 

“Don’t start? What are you going to do about it, malen’kiy dya’vol? Lie on couch in different position to glare ineffectually in my direction?” Matt snorted, the sound somewhere between annoyance and amusement, 

“Really? Already with the poking at my being blind?” He inquired, his voice somewhat muffled as he’d turned his head into the couch cushion,

“Make me stop then, or do you need seeing eye ‘Fog’ to help you?” His lips twitch, half in amusement and half in pride at his off-the-cuff joke, his brows raising in surprise as a genuine laugh rises from the prone man, starting softly at first before rolling into a belly laugh, though it was cut short by a soft groan of pain, 

“That was horrible. You realize that?” Matt had questioned rhetorically before continuing, “God, you’re a pain in the ass. Why are you even still _here_?” 

“I. Am not a pain in your ass. Keep sulking like a child, and I might be tempted to be.” Vlad replied smoothly before he moved to perch on the back of the couch, smirking to himself at the slightly puzzled look about the other man’s features before he spoke again, “I am still here, because you can’t move for shit right now. You think I want to sit and talk out plans for Fisk, go home, come back next day and find you dead in puddle of own blood and stupidity because you tripped over ... whatever the hell that is?” He gestured to the broken plexiglass across the room. Matt let out another half-amused snort, shifting with a groan onto his side to turn his eyes toward him,

“I don’t trip. So I think you’re safe there.”

“Usually. But you lost a lot of blood. Harder to balance that way.” Vlad pointed out, and Matt sighed, 

“Not mine. Not that bad. Besides. I.. have someone I need to track down.” He added, going about trying to sit up with a pained groan, and Vladimir narrows his eyes, 

“Already with this? You. Are not going anywhere, malen’kiy dya’vol.” He pushes him back down, grunting as he smacked at his arms, the gestures annoyed, but half-hearted, “You will pass out before you get fifty feet from apartment.” 

“I will not. Let me up.”

“You will. You can go to confession tomorrow, altar boy.” He replied, grunting softly as Matt’s attempts to remove his hands from his shoulders grow more insistent, more irritated, 

“I’m _not_ going to confession, asshole. Let me up!” Matt demanded, though when Vladimir’s hands remained stubbornly in place, he opted to swing a fist at him, Vlad stumbling back briefly at the blaze of pain along his jaw, though he grinned in satisfaction. That was better. He regarded the now-upright man, raising a brow,

“You see? You barely stagger me. You really think you can do whatever dumbass thing you’re about to try to do?” 

“I’m not going to do a _dumbass thing,_ you prick; I need to track down one of your associates.” 

“For?” 

“Fisk had this... armor, in his jacket. I cut the jacket, but not _him._ I need to find out where he got it, who made it. And there’s only one man I can think of off the top of my head that would have that kind of information.” Vlad considered his words a moment before he let out a soft, grunting sigh,

“Turk.” 

“Turk.” Agreed Matt, and Vladimir scrutinized him a moment before he shakes his head,

“It can wait. Lie down. Rest. You will need it.”

He rolls his eyes as Matt pointedly ignores him, going about getting to his feet with no small amount of effort and pain, panting heavily once he was, though he swayed a heartbeat or two. 

“I need that armor more. I can’t go through another fight like I was just in. Not if I wanna stay in one piece or live a particularly long life.” 

“Lie down, mudak. Before I make you. You can get armor another night.” 

Yet again, Matt ignores him, Vladimir’s jaw setting in irritation as the other man started to make for a fresh costume, and Vlad closed the distance between them, deciding to make his point in a very effective, and characteristically assholeish way - by giving him what, in his book, was little more than a love tap to the deep gouge on the right side of his rib cage, the breath whooshing out of Matt as he staggers back from the pain. Predictable as he did tend to be on occasion, he tried to swing at Vladimir again, but as he did so, his pallor paled considerably, and Vlad had only to bat the fist away as he moved to catch him as he sailed toward the ground, sighing in resignation as he went about getting him back onto the couch. Dumbass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malen’kiy dya’vol - little devil  
> Mudak - asshole


	5. Matt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt had passed out after a hilariously brief attempt at a fight with Vladimir, in which he had - to his annoyance and chagrin - proven Vlad right (not that he would ever admit it to the prick) and wakes up the next day only to discover that the Russian is... apparently cooking in his kitchen?

Matt groans as he starts to come to, the deep, aching pain in his side redoubled thanks to Vladimir having opted to aim a punch directly for the wound in his ribs. The warmth on his face told him night had gone and he had slept well into the morning - possibly the afternoon. He shifts his arms, running his fingers across the surface of his watch; 12:33. He didn’t remember the last time he slept past noon. 

He could hear Vladimir moving around in his kitchen, his nose trying to discern what it was he was actually cooking - he could smell coffee, bacon, and eggs, easily enough, but there was a grainy scent below it, accented by butter. Rye...? No, buckwheat. Where the hell? He shook his head, he wasn’t going to ask. He scrubs his face with a hand, trying to clear the fog from his head a little as he carefully sat up, wincing at the effort, and he leaned against the back of the couch with a quiet sigh. 

Vladimir’s behavior, while in most ways predictable within the confines of their less-than-friendly relationship, had in some ways been a surprise to him. The mockery, the annoyance, the shit-talking, that he expected. But the man had actually been cracking jokes now and again, sometimes good ones, and some part of him seemed genuinely concerned about Matt’s well-being. Plus he was pretty sure he had somewhat come on to him with that remark about his sulking like a child. Or was that just more mockery? He shook his head, he wasn’t sure, and honestly, he was too sore to devote much time to puzzling it out. He was just messing with him, had to be. Not to mention that, at the moment, Matt was more inclined to knock him on his ass for that sucker-punch than anything else.

The sound of dishes clattering then, and he turned his head to speak over his shoulder, aiming for a neutral tone rather than expressing the irritation he felt, 

“What are you doing?” 

“What does it seem like, tupitsa? I’m hungry, and you need to eat. Bacon, eggs, and kasha. Good food for getting strength back.” More clattering, and he heard him moving to and fro in the kitchen. He hums a bit,

“Kasha?”

“Is good. Like porridge but not so mushy.” The Russian clarified, and Matt hums softly, letting his eyes close and laying his head back against the back of the couch, content to pass the time in silence then until Vladimir set food on the table, “Come, eat.” 

Well, at least he seemed to be inclined to let him up from the couch. He’d take it. He carefully gets to his feet, groaning softly as his stitches pulled, and he steadies himself momentarily with the arm of the couch. The fact Vladimir had been so clearly correct in just how not-ready he was to be out on his feet in the city again only irritated him more, if he were honest with himself. He moves to the table, taking a seat with a low grunt.

The smell of the food at that proximity was more than enough to remind him that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, his stomach rumbling as if to chime in just how displeased it was with that fact, and he watched Vladimir return from the kitchen with coffee, setting the cups down before sitting across from him and tucking into his meal without preamble. Matt’s lips twitch slightly - he hadn’t, apparently, been kidding about being hungry. 

“Did you stay here all night...?” He inquired, starting to eat, going for the kasha first more out of curiosity than anything, and somewhat surprised to find he rather liked it,

“Da. Had to make sure you weren’t going to be dumbass and try to leave again, hm?” Replied Vladimir, and Matt laughed a little, 

“I don’t think there was much danger of that.”

“Mm. You are stubborn, malen’kiy dya’vol.” He remarked, as if that simple statement was justification in itself, 

“I’m stubborn?” A soft snort in reply, 

“Eh, I am too, just in different way. I stay stubborn long-term; I make plans, decide how I will deal with situations. You? You make decisions without thought and stay stubborn about them, no matter how stupid decisions are. Like last night. Talking to Turk? Finding armor? Good ideas. Doing so half-dead? Bad idea.”

Matt sighed, the sound put-upon, but also somewhat a concession. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but he wasn’t about to let him know that; he was smug enough as it was. 

“I’m still pissed at you for sucker-punching me.” He informs the Russian before taking a drink of his coffee, “You probably could have made that point in a different way.” He felt Vladimir shrug and regard him, 

“Could have. But not as effectively. Besides, was not sucker-punch. That? Was little more than a love tap, malen’kiy dya’vol.” 

“... What does that even mean? Malen’kiy dya’vol?” He questioned, somewhat butchering the pronunciation to Vladimir’s amusement, if the snort he let out was anything to go by, “Yeah, yeah, like I said, I don’t speak asshole. What does it mean?” 

“Little devil.” Came the matter-of-fact reply, and Matt raised a brow, 

“Little? I’m pretty sure I’m taller than you are.” He pointed out, and Vlad waved a hand dismissively, 

“Has nothing to do with tall or short. You are one man, small and insignificant, but cause no end of annoyance for larger devils than yourself.” 

“Mm, so it’s a remark on my general power status?” He ventures, and Vladimir nods. Matt hums, considering that before he smirks, “Well, I’ll have to rectify that.” Vlad snorts again, soft and amused, 

“You can try. But always will be bigger devils than you.” 

“I’ve gotten pretty good at hobbling them. Bible wasn’t clear on kneecaps, either.” That earned him an actual laugh, and he found himself smiling in spite of himself. 

They passed the rest of the meal in an almost companionable silence, and Matt sat back in his chair once he was done, sighing contentedly at his full stomach as he nursed his coffee. His phone began to ring, announcing Karen was calling him, and Vladimir lets out a soft grunt, 

“She has been calling most of morning. Girlfriend?” Vladimir questions, getting to his feet and clearing away the dishes,

“Secretary.”

Matt let the phone ring; he really wasn’t in the mood to talk right now. Not with her. He knew that, by now, she would be aware of the rough patch — what an understatement — he and Foggy were going through. He knew she would have questions; ones he didn’t want to, or couldn’t, answer. He felt Vladimir look at him from the sink, where he was... washing the dishes? Why was that such a strange concept? Then again, it was weird in general witnessing him doing much of anything domestic. 

“Secretary? What do you do?” He seemed genuinely curious, which somewhat surprised him.

Matt frowned a little in thought; he already knew his name, and Foggy’s, and now Karen. He knew he could find out easily enough whether he told him or not, and perhaps revealing that little bit more of himself would be a step toward engendering trust, something the two of them would need whether they admitted it or not if they were going to take Fisk down.

“I’m a lawyer; defense attorney, actually. Foggy is — was, I don’t know — my partner at our own firm. Karen was our first client, caught up in the Union Allied scandal. Had a murder pinned on her she didn’t commit. She couldn’t afford to pay us, so she’s been working for us since then.”

“Mm, da, Union Allied was messy. Mister Fisk was less than pleased his plans didn’t pan out. I should have known you would have been behind that.”

“He made it easy. It isn’t hard to defend a client that’s innocent, and the man he sent to kill Karen got sloppy.” Matt sighed a little, finishing his coffee before he gets to his feet, rolling his neck before moving across the living room, feeling Vladimir’s gaze boring a hole into his back; he couldn’t help the small smile that crossed his features, “I’m just getting dressed. No laying in a puddle of stupidity.” He assured him - the fact the man had implied stupidity could puddle had amused him more than he was inclined to let on, and Vladimir grunts, 

“Good. You don’t have mop.” 

Matt laughed softly, continuing into the bedroom as he calls over his shoulder,

“Of course not. How could I see if I missed a spot?”

He moves to his closet, debating on going into the office, but really, he knew better. He settles on a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt, pulling them on carefully to keep from further agitating his stitches before he closed his eyes a moment when he heard a knock at the door, and Karen’s voice calling for him. 

Fuck. 


	6. Karen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karen had gone into the office to find the Nelson & Murdock sign in the trash, and Foggy’s things gone from his office; what the hell was going on?

Karen had been trying to reach Matt _all. Day._ And got nothing but his voicemail. Foggy had said he had gotten into a car accident, and when she pushed about what was going on between them, he had told her to talk to Matt. Great, Foggy, fantastic idea — except for Matt’s chronic inability to answer a damn phone. 

She had stopped off to get Matt a balloon — who doesn’t like balloons, right? — before making her way to his apartment, knocking on the door, 

“Matt? Matt, it’s Karen. What’s going on with you and Foggy? Are you okay?” More knocking, “Matt?” 

The door opened, but it wasn’t Matt who was on the other side. She blinks at the blond in front of her, swallowing a little; he really didn’t look all that friendly. Actually, he looked like the type of person that’d kill you in your sleep if you annoyed him too much in spite of the flicker of amusement in his eyes as he glanced up at the balloon. She clears her throat, 

“Is Matt there...? I’ve been trying to —“

“Da, you have been calling all morning. He was sleeping.” Replied his accented voice.

Russian? Since when was Matt friends with a Russian? They were part of the problem. Then again, maybe this guy wasn’t connected to the Russian mob... although judging by what she could see of his tattoos, she sincerely doubted that. 

“Sleeping? Foggy told me he got into a car accident. Is he okay? He usually answers his phone by this time of day.” 

She looks over the Russian’s shoulder as Matt comes into view, Vladimir following her attention and smirking at him, 

“She was worried, about car accident.” Vlad informed him, a hint of amusement in his voice that she couldn’t quite understand. 

“Yeah, I got that.” Matt replied, turning his head toward Karen, “Come in.” He invited, and the blond moved away from the door to let her in as Matt made for his living room.

Karen clears her throat a little again and moves into the apartment, setting her bag and jacket down on the table near the door before following after him, 

“You look like shit. What’s... what’s going on with you and Foggy?”

“Good to know I look better than I feel.” He sighed then, “You’d have to ask him.”

“I did. He told me to talk to you. He cleared out his office, Matt. What happened?” 

Matt sat on the arm of the chair opposite the couch, shaking his head a bit, 

“It’s... we... it’s just a rough patch, Karen. We’ve gone through them before.” 

“A _rough patch?“_ She questioned, scoffing lightly, “Did you miss the part where I said he cleared out his office? That sounds like more than a rough patch to me.” Matt didn’t answer, and she sighed, moving over to him, “I’m worried, Matt. About you, about Foggy. Whatever this is... you guys need to work it out. We have too much to do for it all to fall apart now.” 

“I know. It’ll be okay, Karen. Foggy just needs a little time.” Matt replied, but he sounded more hopeful than certain, and that worried her most of all.

He didn’t know. Whatever it was that had caused this problem, he didn’t know if they would come back from it. It was clear in his voice. She swallows a little, licking her lips a bit before she clears her throat,

“I uh. I got you a balloon.” She remarks, passing the string over to him, “It.. has a monkey on it.” She explains, 

“Thanks, Karen. And thanks for checking in.” 

“Sure. Maybe just... answer your phone next time? Please? I was really getting concerned.” 

“I will.” 

Karen smiled a little, glancing briefly toward the Russian who was leaning against the partition between the entry hall and the kitchen, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he watched the two of them and listened to the conversation, then she moved to the entry hall, taking up her belongings and leaving the apartment. 

Making her way back to Nelson & Murdock, she took time to think things over; she had no idea what was going on with Matt and the Russian but, he clearly wasn’t inclined to talk about it any more than the blond in question had been inclined to move from his spot like some sort of agitated guard dog.

She wondered, briefly, if Foggy knew anything about it, but she wasn’t eager to call him right now. He had been half drunk still when she’d talked to him, and she doubted that had improved. For now, her job was clear. While Matt and Foggy had their heads up their asses, she needed to keep at it. They had to bring Wilson Fisk down. They had to. They couldn’t let him win. 


	7. Vladimir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vlad can’t help but poke at Matt’s relationship with Karen a bit, just to see if he can get a rise out of him.

Vladimir had been silently observing the interactions between Matthew and Karen, though the fact she had given a ‘get well soon’ balloon to a man who couldn’t actually see had amused him to no end. Matt had called her his secretary, but it was clear, to him, at least, that that wasn’t entirely what she wanted to be. Or at the very least, not _just_ his secretary. Once she had left, he looked over at Matt where he still sat perched, with his balloon, on the chair arm. He looked.... ridiculous, actually, like a patient child sitting with a ballon and ice cream cone waiting for their mother to come out of a store. His lips twitched, fighting down a laugh, and Matt turned his head toward him, 

“What? I can feel you smirking from here.” 

“You look ridiculous.” Was the simple reply, and Matt scoffed slightly, letting the balloon go to drift up to the ceiling, “So. _Just_ your secretary?” He questioned, raising a brow, “Seems to me like more than that.” Matt rolled his eyes a little, 

“It’s not. Well, I mean, she’s my friend, but—“

“Why the hell not? If I had krasotka like that looking at me like she looks at you, she would not be just my secretary-and-friend.” He notes, smirking again, “Or do you just not go for girls?” 

“I do.” Matt replied, a hint of resignation in his voice as if he couldn’t believe they were having the conversation in the first place, “It’s just... it’s complicated.”

“Because you run around in costume beating people up?” 

“... More or less, yeah.” Matt sighed, getting up and moving to the kitchen to get himself a beer,

“So, what, you don’t trust her? This secretary-slash-friend? Or do you just not like the idea of how she might think of you? Going from helpless puppy to vigilante, might change things. _Or_ is it more you worry she would react like Froggy and abandon you?”

“Foggy.” Matt replied around a chuckle, 

“Froggy. He croaks too much.” Matt laughed again, “and you are avoiding questions.” 

“I’m not. I’m just choosing not to answer them. My personal life really isn’t your concern, Vladimir.” The Russian shrugs, smirking at him as he hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his pants,

“Was just thinking maybe you wouldn’t be such a prick if you got laid once in a while. Maybe have less reason to go hitting people, hm?” Matt let out a soft, half-amused, half-derisive snort,

“I get laid enough; it’s more the whole people going around hurting other people that gives me reason to hit them.” He replied, taking a pull from the bottle of beer as he wanders toward his bedroom again, 

“So in other words, you go around hurting people for going around hurting people? Seems hypocritical.” 

“The people I hurt aren’t innocent.” 

“No one is innocent, malen’kiy dya’vol. Everyone has hurt others, has done things for own gain. Concept of good and evil, innocent and guilty, is bullshit. Everyone is a mix.” Matt paused in the doorway to his bedroom, as if weighing his words, then he sighed, 

“There are degrees, Vlad. The fact I even have to point that out says a hell of a lot more about you than you think.” 

“Nyet. I have never pretended to be something I’m not. Never make attempts to hide who I am, what I do. You? You see yourself as savior, hm? As hero. But the fact you justify things in such a way, to make yourself feel better about what you do? _That_ is what speaks volumes. You enjoy it. But you can’t admit it to yourself. If you do? That, to you, makes you like me, hm? That is what you can’t stand the idea of. That you and I are the same.” A long silence followed his words, Matt’s grip on the doorway where he’d rested his hand tightening visibly with the whitening of his knuckles, and after several minutes, he replies so softly his voice was almost a whisper, 

“I never claimed to be a hero, or a savior. Just someone trying to help people, do the right thing. I am _nothing_ like you, Vladimir.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, malen’kiy dya’vol. Maybe you’ll start to believe it.” 

Matt turned, fixing him with a burning glare for a long moment before he turned and continued on into the room. 

* * *

Matt had, by the sound of it, taken a shower, but he stayed in his room the rest of the day, leaving Vladimir to his own devices. The man really had shit to do in his apartment, he’d quickly discovered, and had wound up settling into a corner to sleep a while; he preferred corners, or at least walls, where he knew nothing and no one could sneak up behind him in his sleep. Prison had drilled that into his head with frightening speed. 

When his eyes opened, it was dark in the room, aside from the obnoxiously bright light coming from the billboard outside, and he realized the sound of boot steps had woken him — Matt was dressed in his black outfit and was putting his mask on, and Vladimir sighed, 

“Where are you going?” 

“To talk to Turk.” 

“You’re not ready.” 

“I’m ready enough. I rested, I meditated. I’m as good as I’m going to be any time soon; and I need that armor. Are you really going to try and stop me again?” 

Matt’s question was answered when Vladimir got to his feet and closed the distance between them, though the movement wasn’t aggressive, and there was a pause as the two men seemed to size each other up a moment before Vladimir spoke again, 

“Just remember, malen’kiy dya’vol... you get yourself killed? There will be no one left to stop Mister Fisk. Are you really willing to gamble that?” He didn’t wait for an answer, however; he simply turned and made his way upstairs to take the back way out. 

If Matt was so determined to get himself killed, so determined to prove to himself that he could handle doing stupid shit even as injured as he was... Vladimir knew he wouldn’t have been able to stop him without beating him half to death; given he was halfway there already, he was disinclined to complete it. Not when he still needed him alive. When he didn’t anymore? That would be an entirely different story, and he had no qualms with beating the life out of him just for being such an enormous pain in his ass for so long. But for now, discretion was the better part of valor; better to bend just once than to risk losing what edge the other man gave him. 

It didn’t take Vladimir long to walk back to his safe house, make his way inside, and flop onto the couch, running a hand through his hair as he let out a soft, weary sigh. The short sleep he’d had this afternoon was nowhere near enough to combat the exhaustion of the past few days. He let himself lay there a few moments before he got up and poured himself a glass of vodka, taking a drink before lighting a smoke and leaning against a window frame to gaze out onto the street below. The lights were dim enough he would be hard — if not impossible — to spot from the outside, which was how he preferred it. He people-watched for a while, letting his mind clear, pushing away his perpetual annoyance and frustration with a certain costumed vigilante as he nursed his vodka and cigarette, extinguishing the latter when he was done with it and turning to move away from the window. 

He barely registered the sound of a gunshot and shattering glass as white-hot pain lanced his chest, taking him to the ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> krasotka - beautiful girl   
> malen’kiy dya’vol - little devil


	8. Frank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank Castle was a man on a mission. But that mission became sidetracked slightly when, having stopped for a bite to eat, he saw none other than Vladimir Ranskahov walk by the window he was sitting at. Seemed people that were supposed to be dead had trouble staying dead. He intended to fix that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This will be the last character-specific chapter. The final four chapters of this part and chapters in future parts will be integrated from then on.

Frank had stopped off in a favorite little bistro for dinner; he had been busy most of the day ensuring his arsenal was well stocked, his guns well maintained, and his mags fully loaded. He’d already hit the Dogs of Hell a couple days back; a couple poor bastards out on a run. They didn’t last long. His next target was the Irish. He was taking his time to case the place, entrances, exits, headcount, routines. He knew they were having a meet soon. Word of mouth travels fast if you know the right places to listen. More than one family would be there, he knew, and that was to his liking. The more the merrier.

He had just finished his burger and fries and was taking a slow, appreciative drink of the beer he’d gotten with them when a familiar face passed by the window he’d been looking out of. Vladimir Ranskahov. Rumor was the man was dead, but he looked remarkably healthy for a corpse. He sighs in satisfaction as he sets down his empty beer bottle, getting to his feet and putting a fifty on the table — it was too much by more than half, but he knew how shit most people were when it came to tipping, knew waitstaff depended on their tips, how many of ‘em shared those tips with bussers. He never tipped less than $20, if he could manage it, and he usually could. He wanted to make sure, to the best of his ability, that no one had to skip meals to pay a bill; whether the service was good, shitty or mediocre, it didn’t matter to him. They deserved better than they got.

He exits the bistro, following at a discrete distance until he saw where the Russian was headed, and then veered off to fetch his sniper rifle from where he’d kept it ferreted away — he kept weapons all around the more disused rooftops of the city, well hidden and conveniently placed. He never knew when he’d need one, and he’d rather have one somewhere and never need it than need one and not have it. Always.

Frank climbed the roof access ladder of the building he needed with efficient ease, dropping from the ledge to the roof below and striding to uncover his rifle, giving it a quick check to ensure it was still in good working order before he began to cross the rooftops rather than climbing back down to street level to travel. It meant that he, now and again, had to jump onto a ladder to climb onto another rooftop where buildings were higher, but it was more efficient, anyway, and provided him better cover.

Stopping at the building across the way from the one Vladimir had disappeared into, he scanned the windows carefully. He didn’t know if the man was in a spot that had a street view, but if he didn’t, he’d cross the street and take to the rooftops around it until he found him. It wouldn’t be a first. But it proved unnecessary; he saw a faint silhouette in one of the windows, the body profile and black clothing fitting the Russian to a T, and he smirks to himself as he set up his rifle. That was the thing about criminals. They were over-confident, always so sure they couldn’t be seen in their chosen hide-aways. Dumbasses.

He lifts the rifle, peering down its scope and fixing the Russian in his sights.

“One batch...” He whispers shifting the rifle to brace, “Two batch,” a quick visual scan of the area before his eye returned to the scope, his finger resting on the trigger, “Penny and dime.” He squeezed — just as his target turned, a hiss of frustration pulling from him as his shot missed its mark. Not by much - it still nailed him in the chest. Just not the heart; more likely his lung, or between the two. Not a kill shot, and that pissed him off; royally. The ruckus on the street below, though, told him he didn’t have the time to go in and finish the job. He was out of view, and 5-0 would be on the way.

Well, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. And that was exactly what he planned on doing as he slung the rifle over his shoulder and set off across the roof to transition to the next. Vladimir Ranskahov’s days were numbered; that number just didn’t happen to be up tonight.


	9. Bleeding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt finds Melvin, Vladimir has been shot and struggles not to bleed out, Frank did the shooting and is pissed he didn’t kill Vlad in one shot, Karen got kidnapped, shot James Wesley, and is dealing with the aftermath; and Foggy is full of angst and oblivious to all of the above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title shamelessly stolen from the Imagine Dragons song of the same name, which seemed to fit the entire chapter rather well. (Author highly recommends listening to the song whilst reading if you enjoy ID’s style)

Matt had found Turk who then pointed him in Melvin’s direction. After an initial fight, the two came to a truce with Matt’s promise to protect Betsy and his agreement to make the armor for him. After the fact, he decided to make for his apartment.

The moment he neared the building, he could smell blood. A lot of blood. His brows furrow and he moves more quickly, ignoring the protests of his wounds and enters through the rooftop access. Before he even gets the upstairs door of his apartment open, the reek of the blood was overpowering; beneath it he could smell Vladimir’s cologne. Shit. He enters his apartment, listening for the beating of the Russian’s heart, an unexpected pang of relief flooding him when he hears it — it was slow, weak, but definitely there. He moves quickly down the steps and finds the Russian in his bathroom, barely conscious and... in his bath tub?

“Seemed... rude to... bleed all over...floor.” The Russian explained,

“Weren’t you the one telling me about laying in puddles of blood and stupidity?” Matt questioned as he took off his gloves, moving to examine the wound, and Vlad half-laughs, half-coughs,

“Shut up.”

“Who the hell shot you?” Inquires Matt, relieved to feel that the bullet had missed his heart and lung, if only just, but it had hit a major vein to be sure, and it was hosing blood from the wound with alarming speed.

“Don’t know. Never saw. Was... standing by the window in my safe house. I turn away, next thing I know...”

“Jesus. Alright, hang on.” Matt moves off to find something to stem the bleeding with at least a little, riffling through his cabinet with one hand while dialing Claire with the other. Man, she was going to be pissed. Especially when she finds out who it was he needed her to patch up. Part of him was afraid she might refuse. He lets out a breath of relief when she answers the phone,

“Yeah?”

“Claire, I need your help.”

“What did you do this time?” Matt laughs a little,

“Not for me. It’s… Claire, it’s Vladimir.” He winces and holds the phone away from his ear as she shouts,

“THAT RUSSIAN ASSHOLE!? I THOUGHT HE WAS DEAD! WHAT THE HELL?!” A pause as she breathes a moment, and Matt seizes the opportunity to talk,

“Claire, listen. He’s bleeding out in my bathtub —“

“Yeah? Well, let him.”

“Claire. He’s working with me to bring Fisk down. He saved my ass last night. Please.” There was a _very_ pregnant pause on the other end of the line as Matt returned to the bathtub to pack the wound with gauze as best he could, doing his best to ignore the satisfied sound Claire made at Vladimir’s pained groans, and she lets out a heavy sigh,

“I’ll be there in five minutes.” Matt bows his head a moment out of sheer relief, letting out a quiet breath,

“Thank you, Claire.”

“You owe me big for this one, Matt.” She replied, disconnecting the call.

“I’ve got someone on the way. She’s a nurse; she’s the one that told me how to cauterize that gunshot in your side. She’s good people.”

“Nnnh, she didn’t sound too interested in helping.” Vladimir notes, his voice quiet with its weakness, and Matt chuckles a little,

“She’s not, but she will anyway. She’s like that.”

* * *

Karen had been on her way home when she was taken. After a long conversation with Wilson Fisk’s right hand man, she seized the opportunity to shoot him. Now, she was at home, sitting on her couch with a bottle of whiskey and trying not to throw up — again. Already she had vomited to the point nothing but bile had been coming up. After that, the uncontrollable sobbing. Now, she was numb. Nauseated, but numb, and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She had killed him. Without a second thought, without hesitation. She just unloaded that clip into his body until she was sure he was dead. Every time she closed her eyes she could see him, slumped back in his chair, six holes in his chest, head lolling to one side. She stopped closing her eyes.

God, what was she going to do? This surely wouldn’t go unpunished somehow. It couldn’t. Fisk wouldn’t let it. What if he hurt Foggy, or Matt? But he didn’t know who shot him, she reasoned with herself. But he had a disturbing way of finding out things he shouldn’t be able to know.

She wanted to call Matt, or Foggy, or Ben. Tell them what she’d done. But she knew she couldn’t. This was on her. She was the only one that could ever know. It had to be that way. It just had to.

She goes to her bathroom, takes a long shower, dries and changes into her night clothes. She goes into the bedroom, puts the bottle beside her on the bedside table, and crawls into her bed. She might as well try to get some sleep. If that were possible. If it weren’t, drinking herself unconscious seemed the next best thing.

* * *

Vladimir found himself slipping in and out of consciousness — to some degree. His stubbornness alone seemed disinclined to allow him to properly pass out, but he wasn’t always fully cognizant of his surroundings; he could hear Matt moving around, feel his hands on his skin as he diligently worked on trying to keep the bleeding under control, the occasional bite of pain in the process to jar his senses into sharpness again, if only for a moment or two.

Had he been able to truly think beyond disjointed, disconnected half-thoughts, he might have been curious at the genuine concern he’d heard in Matt’s voice behind his jokes and smart-ass remarks that had begun to form the foundation for their less-than-hostile relationship. He might have noticed the occasional tremor in his otherwise reliably steady hands. But the only thing his mind let him focus on was the sound of his voice as he made those remarks, those jokes, the occasional rambling thought as if his brain had spilled out of his mouth before he could stop it.

On some level, Vladimir knew that he was mostly trying to keep him awake, trying to give him an anchor to hold to until this nurse — Claire, was that what he had called her? — arrived, and though he wasn’t responding much, it was working.

He opens his eyes half-way, exhaustion and bone-deep fatigue creating a glassy sheen to the usual cold blue, and he licks his lips a little to wet them, the gesture unintentionally slow; as if his tongue forgot halfway through the maneuver what, exactly, it was supposed to be doing, and he vaguely tuned in to Matt’s voice that had, for a little while now, been monologuing about Fisk.

“— so I’m starting to think that we might actually wind up with enough evidence to get Fisk put behind bars if we get real damn lucky.” 

Vladimir snorted softly. Of course he wanted to put him in prison. Of course he didn’t want to kill him. Well, no, he did, very much, want to kill him. That Vlad knew with a certainty that settled like iron in the back of his mind. But he also knew just how much Matt struggled with that conflict of personality, between Matt Murdock: Attorney at Law and The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. They were two men housed in one body, and rarely did their instincts align.

“American prison is shit. More like being sent to camp than punishment. Three meals a day. Toilet, water, clean clothes, exercise in yard. TV and video games.” The Russian added the last with a decided note of disdain, “You want him to be sent on vacation, malen’kiy dya’vol?” He questioned, watching him as he spoke, though he was getting a little blurry around the edges. Matt sighed deeply, licking his lips as he re-packed his wound, Vladimir groaning softly as he re-applied firm pressure to it,

“Of course not. I _want_ him to pay for what he’s done. I just only have so many options at my disposal.”

“Then give him to me.” Vlad replied, watching a mixture of surprise and confusion flit through Matthew’s eyes as he turned them to his face,

“What do you mean?”

“Give. Him. To me. Let _me_ make that tolstyy trakh pay.”

“I’m not going to let you kill him, Vlad.” The lawyer pointed out with a note of irritation, and Vladimir chuckled, though really it came out more as a lilting series of soft coughs,

“I won’t. At least, not at first, da? I have many plans to make that piece of shit pay. All of them need him alive to work, hm?” He watched him as he spoke, watched the growing clarity of understanding settle on his features, and of the conflict of horror and genuine interest in the idea grow in his eyes, “You know as well as I do. There is large part of you that wants nothing more than to hear him scream, watch him shudder and writhe with pain. Hear him beg for mercy and have it denied. Have him feel nothing but agony for days. Weeks, if I can manage it, before I let him bleed out, covered in own piss and shit and blood. Make that mudak feel powerless, helpless. Like those he hurt, da?” _Like my brother._ His thoughts supplied. A shudder rolled through Matt’s frame, though Vladimir was uncertain if it was revulsion, delight, or a twisted combination of the two, and the brunet shook his head,

“No, there isn’t, Vladimir. There’s no part of me that isn’t absolutely _reviled_ at that idea—“

“ _Liar._ ” The Russian’s voice hissed softly, a pained groan catching on the end as Matt’s grip over his wound tightened in — anger? Fear? He couldn’t say.

“I said no. Fisk _will_ pay, but we’re doing it _right._ Do. You. Understand me?” His voice low, firm, tone unyielding to anything other than an agreement with its words that had come out in something akin to a soft growl. The voice of the Devil he had come to know so well; the Devil that was hopelessly restraining his darker instincts, his urges, his desires to cut Vladimir loose and let him do exactly what he wanted. “We do this the right way, or not at all.”

“Perhaps, malen’kiy dya’vol. We will see, hm?” Vladimir replied, letting his eyes glide closed again, though he felt the vibration of motion through the other man’s arms as he turned his head, as if to listen, a few moments before he himself heard the apartment door close.

* * *

Frank was staking out the pub the Irish were going to meet at, sitting on a roof a discrete distance away, a thermos of coffee at his feet, a cigarette between his teeth, and an assault rifle propped against his leg. He wasn’t planning on _using_ it, at least not today; but being prepared for unexpected events was second nature to him. He could hide it easily enough, if needed.

While he watched, listened — waited — he passed the time counting ammo and loading empty magazines he’d brought from his apartment. Idle hands, they say, are the devil’s plaything, and he couldn’t disagree. He got fidgety, antsy even, when he didn’t have anything to do but sit and wait and think. Though he was thinking more than enough, anyway, in spite of the work.

A large part of him was still royally pissed off that he hadn’t managed to kill the Russian kingpin in one shot. He hoped the asshole was bleeding out somewhere, but the man had proved incredibly hard to kill, so he was far from counting him as dead. It was only a matter of time until he _would_ be, it was true. He would make sure of that personally. But he had to, grudgingly, hand a modicum of respect to the son of a bitch — not unlike the respect of a hunter when chasing down a particularly wily quarry. The determination, outright stubbornness, really, to live, to survive against the odds? That was something he understood, could relate to. All told, he might have even _liked_ the guy, if he wasn’t such a walking pile of human garbage.

He wondered, idly, if the man was a product of nature, or, like himself, nurture. If he had always been destined to become the malignant cancer upon society he was, or if his life had shaped him into that. Frank would never admit it out loud, but a part of him could understand, sympathize, even empathize, with those who did whatever it took to survive, that would crawl up a pile of dead and broken bodies just to bring themselves out from the bottom of the heap they had been lying at for so long. 

It didn’t make it _right,_ it didn’t make it justifiable, or even tolerable. But he could understand, in his way. However to him, crawling through a river of blood just to get onto the far shore was unacceptable; something that could never go unpunished. He had made it his personal goal, his constant mission, to ensure that those who did got what was coming to them. In spades.

* * *

Foggy was, instead of drinking at Josie’s, drinking in his apartment. Though he typically preferred the dive bar to pathetically drinking alone, the noise, the ambience, the occasional bar fight were distractions, and _god_ did he need to think.

Lying to Karen still left a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘ _A car crash? Really? So you’re helping Matt **lie** now? Jesus, you’re pathetic.’ _He thought to himself, taking a long pull from the bottle of tequila, grimacing slightly as he swallowed. He usually preferred scotch, whiskey, mezcal, even absinthe on occasion. But the tequila was cheap and effective.

“I should have been a butcher.” He muttered to himself, sighing heavily. If he had, he wouldn’t have ever met Matt, wouldn’t be in the position he was in now, full of pain, of anger, grief, remorse and a bitterness so deep it made his stomach churn. He wouldn’t have had to lie to Karen because he wouldn’t even _know_ her. He wouldn’t have been lied to for years by someone that he had thought was his best friend. He wouldn’t know, now, that that same supposed-best-friend was donning a costume and beating the shit out of people every night while preaching the sanctity of the law and doing things the ‘right way’ by daylight.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he rolled the bottle between his hands, “Nelson & Murdock, avocados at law.” He murmured, smirking a little in spite of himself at the memory of their drunken conversation, having to close his eyes as his vision blurred with tears immediately afterward. ‘ _God, Matt. **Why**? Why didn’t you just **tell** me?’ _He scrubs his face to wipe away the tears that had shed in spite of his attempt to stop them, swallowing thickly. He thought that, maybe, this wouldn’t have been so bad if he had known from the get-go that Matt could see in the way that he could; at least then he would have maybe had a little forewarning when he went all masked-vigilante. If he had been open, honest with him from the beginning, maybe… maybe he could even understand. Learn _why_ he was doing what he was. Why he was leading a double life.

_‘He told you now, though.’_ Remarked one part of his brain before another quickly followed with its retort: ‘ _No, he didn’t. I found out. He only told me because he got **caught**.’ _ He lets out a shaky sigh of anger, taking another pull of the tequila — the last in the bottle — before he hurls it across the room to shatter against the wall as the anger rushed through him like a fire, though just as quickly, it petered out, and he sagged in his seat, resting his head back against it, the anger quickly replaced with that same grief. He was still mourning Elena, that was true enough; but he was also mourning the loss of his best friend. He wasn’t sure which hurt more.

* * *

Claire had left the ER, citing a family emergency for her need to leave, stopped off at her place to get her kit bag, and was walking quickly to Matt’s apartment. She still couldn’t believe she was helping that Russian piece of shit when she’d really love nothing more than to sit there and watch him bleed to death. _‘Matt. You’re helping **Matt** , not him.’ _She reasoned to herself, which was the only thought that kept her putting one foot in front of the other.

It had startled her, when she spoke to the vigilante — He sounded _scared._ Shaken. Like some part of him might actually care about the lump of filth bleeding out in his apartment. Was it just because he needed him to bring down Fisk? Or had he actually, somehow, managed to grow on him? _‘Like a damn wart.’_ She smirked to herself, but the fact she didn’t really know the answer unsettled her slightly. Just _what_ was Matt getting himself into? She hoped to god he knew what he was doing; that he wasn’t actually trusting the son of a bitch.

She enters Matt’s apartment building and moves to his door, pleased to find it unlocked, and she closes and locks it behind her.

“Matt?” She calls,

“In the bathroom.” Came the clear, but distant, reply, and she walked through his apartment to the room in question. She couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction she felt when she saw the incredibly pale blond lying in the tub, blood staining the porcelain beneath him and trailing into the drain. Matt moves aside so she could set down her bag and sit on the edge of the tub, putting on a pair of exam gloves and setting to removing the gauze Matt had packed the wound with, doing her best to ignore the feel of the Russian’s eyes upon her,

“Thank you, Claire, for doing this.” Matt almost whispered,

“Yeah, well, it’s against my better judgment. But you’re my friend, Matt. You know I’ll always be there for you.” She heard the soft huff of breath through his nose as he smiled, “You were right to call.” She admits, somewhat grudgingly, “It hit an artery. Think he would’ve been dead by now if you hadn’t packed that so well.” She picks up the Russian’s hand, putting a finger into the wound to plug the artery, smirking faintly at his hiss of pain before she could stop herself, “Hold that.” She instructed, getting a few things from her bag to repair the artery as best she could — it wouldn’t be perfect by any means. He really needed a surgeon; a vein graft would have been the best shot. But that wasn’t exactly an option. “I need to open the wound to get at the bullet and that artery a bit better.” She remarked to Vladimir, glancing to him, “Not gonna lie, it’s gonna hurt like hell.” She added,

“Pain is no stranger to me. Do what you need.”

“I was planning on it.” She replied, using a scalpel to cut through the virgin tissue around the wound, perhaps not _entirely_ remorseful of the shudder of pain and the gasping groan it elicited. Ok, hardly at all, in the interest of honesty. But there was a little; a tiny bit…. More like a molecule really.

“Is he gonna survive this?” Matt questioned, hearing the faltering of Vladimir’s heart now and again; a weak lub-dub——lub instead of the steady, if slow, rhythm it had been holding at since he’d discovered him in the tub.

“I don’t know.” Claire admitted, honestly, “But I’m going to do what I can to try to make sure he does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> malen’kiy dya’vol - Little devil  
> Mudak - asshole  
> tolstyy trakh - fat fuck


	10. A Candle to Guide Me, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vladimir is far from out of the woods, but at least is no longer on the brink of death; Matt looks into trying to find who shot him; Foggy gets his head out of his ass(Sort of); and Frank — having fully cased the Irish pub — is using his free time to hunt down the Russian kingpin who is being reluctantly cared for at regular intervals by Claire. Wilson Fisk, still emotionally reeling from Vanessa’s poisoning and gradual recovery as well as the loss of his beloved friend, James Wesley, makes his play. But will it be his last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Title, again, shamelessly, stolen from an Imagine Dragons song (Monster). That song just fits Matt like a glove.

Matt was sitting on the foot of the right side of his bed, having helped Claire move Vladimir to the left side of it once she had finished patching him up to the best of her abilities. She had managed to make a make-shift hanger on the wall for the saline IV she had run, and was now checking over Matt’s wounds which moving the unconscious Russian had agitated.

“You really need some armor or something, this is just _brutal_ , Matt.” She commented, cleaning up blood that had leeched from the wound in his rib before cutting away the rather inexpert stitches placed by Vladimir to re-do them.

“Yeah, I’m working on it, actually.” He sighs a little, “I know I already said it, but… I really do appreciate everything, Claire. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Matt remarks quietly, and Claire grins softly,

“Bleed to death on your apartment floor, by the looks of it, if there aren’t any back-from-the-dead Russians around to keep that from happening.” Replies Claire, and Matt laughs a little, nodding,

“You’re really not wrong.” He sighs again without realizing it, letting his eyes close while she worked. He was beyond exhausted; the fight with Nobu — which still flashed into his mind whenever he tried to meditate for any real length of time — the ass-kicking he’d received from Fisk, pretty much _everything_ involving Vladimir, then Foggy… and now the constant concern that Vlad had a very real possibility of actually dying. He wasn’t sure, beyond their mutual goal, why he even _cared_. It wasn’t like humanity wouldn’t, objectively, be better off without him.

The truth was, one thing had happened that was the absolute worst thing to have happen to objectivity: He had gotten to know him a bit, saw something from him besides hostility and anger and malignancy. He had a sense of humor, he didn’t smile much, but he smiled. He was a smug pain in the ass… but he was also usually right in a lot of things; an intelligence that Matt found he admired, even if it did irritate him with how he posed the remarks that intellect provoked. Vladimir was simply. _Vladimir_. No frills, no glitz, no glamour. He was who he was and he didn’t try to pretend otherwise. It was refreshing; and often a stark contrast to Matt, himself.

“What are you thinking about up there? I can practically smell the wood burning.” Clair half-teased, but she also sounded genuinely curious, and Matt smiled,

“A lot. Too much.”

“So… what’s the deal with you and this asshole? I mean, I get he’s helping you with Fisk but…” She trailed off, taking a moment to finish a stitch before she sighed, “It’s like you actually care whether he lives or dies, and that… I just can’t figure out.”

“I do.” He replied softly, “I don’t know why I do. But I do. He could’ve killed me, when I passed out. Just let me bleed to death. He’s had multiple opportunities to kill me since then. But he hasn’t. We’ve come to some sort of… mutual truce, sort of.”

“So, what, you’re friends now?” Claire questioned skeptically, and Matt snorted,

“I wouldn’t go that far. But… we’re allies, anyway; for now.”

“Yeah, well, you be careful. The man’s a _snake_ , Matt. You think you’re fine playing with it, but then the son of a bitch bites you and you find yourself remembering that it’s a predator, not prey.”

“Mnnnh… flattery does not work well on me.” Came a bleary comment from behind Matt, and he couldn’t stop the amused twitch of his lips.

‘ _Prick_.’

* * *

By the next morning, Frank was on the move. He’d decided to scope out Vladimir’s flat, see if he could pick up some sort of trail to follow. The occasional drop — or small trail — of blood kept him on the right track, though he often had to stop and scan around a while to discern which way the Russian had headed.

The trail was, all things considered, easy enough to follow for the most part, leading him to an apartment building not far away; he climbs the roof access ladder the other man had, for absence of any evidence to the contrary, gone up, finding the trail again on the roof — heavier this time for the exertion and exacerbation of the wound from the climbing — and followed it to the door that led downstairs, quietly descending. He looks to the door that he had clearly opened, if the blood on the knob were anything to go by, and presses his ear to the door. Voices. A male, a female, the occasional, more distant sound of a Russian-accented voice as if calling from across a distance. Bingo.

He hesitates; his instincts were to go in and kill the asshole, but the idea of civilians being mixed up in the issue, if that’s what they were, left a sour taste in his mouth. Instead, he listens more intently, trying to pick up snippets of the muffled conversation,

“—should probably go into the office. See if I can find information on who did this.”

“I wouldn’t.” Answered the female, “Whoever this guy is? Clearly he’s got it out for that bastard. You’ve got enough problems, Matt, without adding that on to it. You’re tough, but I don’t wanna see you catching a bullet for the effort.”

“I’ll be careful, Claire.” Replied Matt, apparently, “If there’s someone out there trying to kill people? I need to find out who it is.” A heavy sigh from the woman,

“Yeah, I guess that would go along with the whole tights-and-cape thing, huh? Just. Promise me you’ll be careful? Masked vigilante or not, Matt, you need to tread lightly with this one. I can feel it.”

“I will. I promise.”

Frank moves his ear from the door. Masked vigilante? Was this Matt guy the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen he’d been hearing so much about? If he was, why the hell was he helping Ranskahov? From what he heard, the guy had given the Russians no end of problems. It didn’t smell right. He moves silently away from the door, exiting the building the same way he’d entered, and he crosses over a couple of buildings to sit and stake out the place. He needed to figure this out before he went in there guns blazing. If Vladimir was as bad off as Frank thought he was, he wouldn’t be moving any time soon, anyway.

* * *

Wilson Fisk had just sat down to breakfast, and Vanessa soon joined him,

“You shouldn’t be up.” He remarked gently,

“I was calling for you.” She replied, kissing his hand affectionately,

“I didn’t hear you; I’m sorry. How are you feeling?”

“Better. Have you found any leads on who poisoned the benefit?”

“I have a few. I’ll be looking into them this evening. I also plan on paying Ben Urich a visit.”

“The reporter?” Inquired Vanessa, curiously, as she began to eat her omelet that Wilson always made for her,

“The same. It seems he paid my mother a visit. I must learn why, and how he found her. Then… then he will have to pay for his transgression. His sheer cheek.” Wilson replied, unable to stop the surge of anger that caused him to clench his fist, and Vanessa gave an understanding smile, putting her hand over his closed one,

“I have no doubt you’ll find the answers you’re looking for. Just be careful, Wilson. Please.” She implored, her voice soft, tender, and Wilson smiled as he brought her hand to his lips, pressing an affectionate, almost reverent, kiss to her knuckles.

“For you, Vanessa? Always.”

* * *

Vladimir was lying in bed, dozing from time to time, but awake more often than not. An unfamiliar place for him to sleep, in a bed rather than on a floor, an IV catheter in his arm – which irritated it every time he tried to move the damn thing — and Claire and Matt talking in the other room room all combined to provide the Russian with a degree of restlessness, his instincts to be on his guard, to be wary, refusing to allow him to really rest. He sighed, watching the saline drip-drip-drip down the tubing, his left arm reaching to play with it a little in an absent matter, just to watch the drops’ trajectory shift with it, half-consciously singing that same song he had sung in the tunnels as he did so, his voice low.

When Matt returned to the bedroom, Vlad looked over, observing him as he began to dress in a suit and tie.

“Where are you going?” He inquired,

“Into the office. See if I can find out anything about who shot you.” Matt paused, turning his head to one side, “What was that you were singing? A lullaby?” He questioned, tying his tie, and Vladimir chuckled softly,

“Nyet. Is song about war. About young men who worked artillery gun to fight tanks. Their commander has his skull broken, though they destroyed a tank. The gun is on fire, the ammo going to explode; all men die, and their families mourn them.”

“That sounds… Depressing.” Matt commented honestly, earning an amused snort from the other man,

“Is sad, da, but is good story of men who die for their country. Men who, so young their faces have no beards, stand against tanks with only each other, to fight, and won, though they die in doing so. Good story of loyalty of brothers.” Vlad spoke the last softly, letting the IV line go before tucking his arm behind his head, Matt’s eyes turning to him, seeming to regard him for a long moment, though the Russian knew better, and he moved to sit on the edge of the bed beside him,

“I never said. I’m sorry, about Anatoly. We may have been enemies… but no one deserves what happened to him.” Matt spoke softly, his words honest, genuine, which somewhat surprised Vlad as he stared at him a moment, swallowing a little as he looked away,

“Just promise me, mudak. _Promise me_ , Fisk will pay for what he did to my Tólja.” If Matt’s honest condolences had been a surprise, doubly so was the soft hand that rested on his left shoulder, giving it a gentle but firm squeeze,

“He will, Vladimir. I promise.” Came the whispered reply, Matt’s hand lingering a moment before he rose to his feet, “I’ll be back soon. Claire went to get some more supplies, blood, if she can manage it; you’ve lost a lot. She’ll probably be back before I will.” 

Vladimir nods in acknowledgement, watching Matt as he leaves the room, hears the apartment door close, and he sighs quietly. The genuine sympathy from the man had caught him off guard, but it wasn’t unwelcome. Too often, he felt entirely alone without his brother, his constant companion through his life. But in those few, quiet moments of shared understanding of grief, that loneliness faded. Just a little. Just for a minute.

* * *

Foggy had stopped in Nelson and Murdock to gather files he needed to continue working on the case they were building against Fisk; Karen wasn’t there, which somewhat surprised him, and when the door opened he spoke without looking, assuming it was she returning,

“Hey, where did you put the Union Allied folder?” He questions, looking through another file containing its list of child companies, and he stiffens slightly when it was Matt who replied,

“It’s in my office.” Matt spoke softly, “I was working with it the other day.”

“Thanks.” Foggy replies curtly, moving for Matt’s office,

“Foggy. Can we talk?”

Foggy hesitated, wanting dearly to tell him to go to hell, but something held him back; the almost imploring tone in Matt’s voice was a rare one, and Foggy lets out a deep sigh,

“What is there even to talk about, Matt?”

“I know, I know you’re angry, and hurt, and I… am _so_ sorry for that, Foggy. But… I can’t just, go back in time and change everything; believe me, I’d love to, with so much. The only thing I can even try to do is explain, if you’ll let me.” Matt replied, leaning his walking stick against the door frame and moving to sit on Karen’s desk. Foggy turned toward him, studying him a moment, and after a time, he let out a soft sound of resignation,

“Alright, explain. Make me understand, Matt, why the hell you’re going around beating the shit out of people at night and turning around and telling me and Karen to do things by the book. Please explain that because for the _life_ of me, I can’t figure it out. I just… I can’t. I don’t get it.”

Matt paused, clearly searching for and weighing his words, licking his lips slightly before he spoke,

“I hear things, things… you wouldn’t believe. When I was younger, before all this, I’d lay awake at night, listening to the sirens. I liked to put stories to them. Trying to figure out what they were for. Ambulance or cops, robbery or fire. After I lost my sight, after my abilities developed, I realized how many sirens there actually were. How much this city suffered every single night. I tried not to fight, to make my dad proud, to block it out — the sirens, the pain, the fear, all strangling Hell’s Kitchen. For years I buried my head. Then one night, right after we quit Landman and Zack, I heard it.”

“Heard what?” Questioned Foggy, softly.

“A little girl, crying in her bed in a building down the block. Her father liked to go to her room late at night, when his wife was asleep.”

“Jesus…”

“I called child services, like you’re supposed to. But the mom wouldn’t believe it, said it wasn’t true, the dad was smart, made sure what he did and how he did it didn’t leave a mark. The law couldn’t do anything to help that little girl, but I could. I knew his routine, waited til he was alone. He spent the next month in the hospital eating through a straw, and I never slept better.”

“You say all this like you just had it with how things are, but to do what you do… you had to keep training, knowing you’d do something like this. Maybe it isn’t about justice, Matt; maybe it’s about you having an excuse to hit someone. Maybe you just can’t stop yourself.” Replied Foggy, a hint of anger creeping back into his voice,

“I don’t want to stop, Foggy.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed if you keep this up, Matt. You know that right?” Foggy remarked, concern showing through that anger, and Matt shakes his head a little,

“I can take care of myself.”

“What about the rest of us? Me, Karen. We’re a part of this because of you. We didn’t get a say in that.”

“I can’t give up now, Foggy. Who’s gonna stop Fisk?”

“The law, maybe? Just a thought.”

“Tell that to Elena. If you could have put on a mask and prevented what happened, tell me you wouldn’t have.”

“That’s not fair, Matt…”

“We don’t live in a world that’s fair; we live in this one, and I’m doing everything I can to make it a better place.”

“A better place…? That kind of sounds like what Fisk keeps saying.”

“Don’t do that, don’t twist it around.”

“Did you ever stop to think what would happen if you went to jail, or _worse?_ Do you really think anyone would believe that _I_ didn’t know what you were doing? That Karen didn’t know?!”

“This city _needs_ me in that mask, Foggy.” Matt replied, his voice thick with unshed tears,

“Yeah, well, I don’t. I only ever needed my f—friend.” Replies Foggy, a tear running down his cheek, “I wouldn’t have kept this from you Matt. Not from you.”

“You don’t know that; you don’t know that, Foggy.” Matt countered, his voice rough, shaky.

“Yeah. I do.” Said Foggy, turning away then and moving into Matt’s office to get the required file, heading for the front door afterward, though he paused, hand on the knob, and he sniffs softly, licking his lips and swallowing before he spoke, “The Russian. Who is he?”

“An ally. Enemy of my enemy, all that.” Replied Matt as he ran a hand down his face, “He saved my life last night.” 

“Be careful, Matt. Please.” Was all Foggy said, exiting the building afterward.

* * *

Matt stayed at the office after Foggy left, reading through files and any information he could find on the internet about murders in Hell’s Kitchen similar to Vladimir’s attack, and inevitably stumbles upon a police record regarding a hit on the Dogs of Hell on the highway, an Italian mobster that was brutally murdered, the transcription of the photo indicating a knife stuck through his hand into a table it was resting on. Jesus. 

The file indicated his police-given Alias was ‘The Punisher,’ a vigilante who was systematically taking down organized crime syndicates throughout New York City. There was speculation of intense military training, which Matt had no difficulty assuming to be true, going off of the specs of the ammo used, its related weapon, and the precision with which Vladimir had been shot. It was clear that, though Vladimir was currently alive, it was going to take effort to keep him that way, beyond medical care. This wasn’t just a vigilante, he was a hunter. That thought got him to his feet, and he slings his jacket on as he quickly makes his way out of his office, grabbing his stick and making tracks for his apartment.

When he reached it, his stomach clenched; his door was unlocked and there was a very unfamiliar scent in the hall; he could hear three heartbeats in his apartment — one he immediately recognized as Vladimir, one, more rapid than usual, that sounded like Claire, and one steady, strong heartbeat that had, through elimination, to belong to their uninvited guest. He takes a slow breath to steady himself, and opens the door.


	11. A Candle to Guide Me Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson Fisk has killed Ben Urich and Leland Owlsley. Matt is absent from his funeral: The Punisher has Matt, Claire and Vladimir trapped in Matt’s apartment, with Matt desperately trying to appeal to Frank’s better nature — at least until Fisk is taken down. 

Claire had managed to convince a friend in the field to give her a couple of units of blood — strictly off the record, of course — to take to Matt’s apartment, along with more saline and other supplies she was running short on. Grateful though she was as she strolled back to the apartment, she wasn’t thrilled with the idea of spending time alone with Vladimir Ranskahov of all people. Still, she was first and foremost a nurse, and her drive to care for the injured, regardless of who they are, kept her from going home and not returning to Matt’s.

She opened the door when she arrived, closing it behind her and locking it, and took the time to take off her jacket and shoes. She was going to be here a while, and her feet wanted out of the damn things after almost two days of non-stop work. Claire takes up her kitbag then, moving into the bedroom where Vladimir seemed to be sleeping; though as she approached his eyes opened and fixed on her with a sharp, almost wild look in them that stopped her in her tracks until she saw recognition overtake the expression and he relaxed again. She clears her throat a little, pretending that she hadn’t potentially been inches from being punched or worse, setting the bag down and opening it to take the blood out of it, having kept it cool with a couple of cold packs. Hanging a bag and setting up the lead, she looks down at Vladimir, feeling his eyes on her,

“What?” She questioned, more sharply than she meant to, but her customer service voice tended to vanish after a point of exhaustion. Vladimir seemed to take it in stride, though; actually he seemed somewhat amused, really.

“Why do you do this?” He questioned, his voice rough with sleep, “Care for someone you hate?” He clarified.

Claire was silent for a time while she finished with the lead and opened the line, then, somewhat tentatively, sat on the edge of the bed beside him at his feet in effort to maintain a semi-safe distance. Her voice was quiet when she replied, not a whisper, but soft, like the voice of someone carefully testing how thin the ice beneath their feet happened to be,

“You’re a career criminal, right? So, why do you do what you do?” She inquired, watching the brief flicker of surprise mingled with mild confusion in his eyes as he studied her; clearly that wasn’t what he had been expecting her to say.

“I do it because it is what I know to do. Because I enjoy it. It brings me satisfaction — when things go well, anyway.” He replied, and Claire nodded, gesturing to him like ‘well, there you go.’ He hums as he seems to consider her gesture and his own words, “I see. You do it because it is who you are.”

“Exactly.” Replied Claire, “Being a nurse isn’t just an occupation or a job, it becomes a part of you, a very defining part of who you are. Are there people I would rather knock the shit out of instead of helping them? Oh yeah. Got guys coming into the ER all shot to shit or stabbed or whatever other mess, swastikas and shit all over them. Those are the guys that another part of me would much rather let bleed to death on that gurney. But I don’t, because it’s just not what we do. We treat every patient the same, or at least try to. Because regardless of what vile things some of them have done in their life, they’re still human beings who deserve to have the problems all humans invariably deal with taken care of.” Claire explained, then she shrugged her shoulders a little, “That applies to you, too. Trust me, there’s times I wish it didn’t. But it does.” She added, and Vladimir was quiet for a time, seemingly thinking her remarks over before he let out a small hum,

“I understand, I think.” He replied finally, “But… thank you, anyway. I know you did it to help him, not me. But I am still grateful.”

Claire had been about to respond until there was a knock at the door, and she blinked, wondering if Matt had forgotten his keys. She glances to Vlad briefly before she gets to her feet and moves into the foyer, opening the peep-hole to peer at the individual on the other side; an unfamiliar face greeted her,

“Yes?” She questioned through the door,

“Yeah, I got a delivery here for a uh—“ He looked down before back to the peep hole, “Matt Murdock? Normally I’d just leave it but, needs signing for or I’ll land my ass in a pot of hot water, yeah?”

Claire hesitated a moment before she sighed, letting the peep hole slide closed as she unlocked the door, only to find a hand immediately over her mouth as she was shoved back against the wall with surprising strength, the door kicked closed behind the man, 

“Now, listen to me. You got a son of a bitch in the other room that I put one bullet into already. Plannin on putting in another. You gonna do something stupid, like try to stop me?” The man asked, his voice low so as not to carry, Claire’s eyes wide as she stared at him, though when she had a few moments to weigh his question… she shook her head mutely. “Good girl. You stay outta the way and this’ll go just fine for you, yeah? I don’t hurt people that ain’t done anything wrong unless they get stupid. You don’t seem the stupid type.” He gave her mouth a light squeeze with his hand, emphasizing that ‘stupid’ included screaming her head off, before he let his hand drop and strode across the living room to head for the bedroom, drawing his sawed-off as he went.

* * *

Frank levels his sawed-off at Vladimir, who had already sat up in bed in response to the thump of Claire being slammed into the wall, and Frank smirks,

“I don’t think I’ll miss this time.” Remarked Frank,

“Vy dumayete, chto sobirayetes' ubit' menya?” Vladimir chuckled, shaking his head, “This. Is not how I die.” He added,

“No? Well let’s just see how many lives you’ve got.” He had been less than a heartbeat from squeezing the trigger when what felt like a freight train — at least in velocity — slammed into him from behind, the weapon skittering across the floor as Matt took him to the ground.

Frank turned himself in the other man’s grip to deliver a right hook followed by an uppercut with the left, staggering him enough he threw him off of him, but the other man proved to be quick to regain his bearings, if the roundhouse kick to Frank’s head as he tried to stand was any indication. Frank stumbled back to his knees, shaking the cobwebs out before pushing to his feet, charging the lawyer and tackling him into the bedroom partition, a sharp, pained groan rising from him as Frank’s shoulder collided with the wounds in his torso, knocking the breath out of him. The sound of a shotgun cocking got both men’s attention, and Frank shoved Matt aside to turn to who he expected to be Vladimir with the gun; but it wasn’t. It was Claire.

“Make one more damn move and I _will_ drop you.” She threatened, and it didn’t take Frank more than a cursory survey of her eyes and expression to know she was dead serious.

“And if she doesn’t I guarantee I will.” Panted Matt, and Frank snorted,

“You? You’re barely on your feet after a little scrap.” He catches the way Matt braced his rib and smirks, “Should know better than goin into a fight wounded by now, yeah? You _are_ him, right? Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?” His smirk broadened at the surprise in Matt’s eyes, his glasses knocked off in the tussle, “Heard you two talking earlier. She made mention of you bein a masked vigilante. Not hard to put two and two together. Blind thing’s a bit of a surprise.”

“Who the hell are you?” Claire inquired, but it was Matt who answered,

“Police records call him The Punisher. I got enough out of the records, I figured he’d be on his way here if he wasn’t already. He doesn’t just kill his targets, he hunts them down.” Matt informed her, and Frank chuckled,

“The Punisher huh? Little too sensational for my liking, but I’ve heard worse. If you’re _really_ curious, my name’s Frank.” He volunteers, then he looks to Matt, “You wanna give me a damn good reason I shouldn’t kill the both of you just so I can finish off that piece of shit over there on the bed?”

“Idi trakhni sebya, mudak.” Remarked Vlad, still sitting up, but having yet to make a move off of the bed, as though weighing the situation and its players within,

“Vlad.” Matt cautioned softly, glancing to him before he returned his attention to Frank again, “I think you might find it favorable to let him live, Frank. At least for now.” Frank laughed, genuinely amused,

“Yeah? And why’s that, huh? What you think he’s gonna miraculously change, have some sort of cathartic self-revelation? Turn his life around and stop being a pile of human trash?”

“Mm, da, but at least I am good looking pile of human trash.” Vladimir counters, and Claire has to fight down a laugh into a cough, and Matt’s lips twitched slightly as he fought a smile,

“Because he’s helping me bring down Wilson Fisk.”

“The guy wantin to fix Hell’s Kitchen up…?” Questioned Frank in confusion,

“No, the guy wanting to destroy it. Fisk is connected to _everything_ awful and destructive in this city, Frank. The bombings? The cops that got shot? That was him, not me. He’s got ties to the Yakuza, the Triads, _had_ Russian ties until he killed Vladimir’s brother and tried to kill Vladimir himself. He’s got cops, judges, a senator, city councilmen, all in his pocket doing whatever the hell he wants them to.” Matt explained, his voice level in spite of the obvious tension in his muscles.

Frank weighed this information, letting it sink in, turn over a few times, and he scratches his jaw, smirking at the way Claire shifted her grip on the shotgun on reflex. It made sense, really; he knew there was a common thread somewhere. He just hadn’t been able to find it and give it a pull. He raises a brow then,

“So, what, you think he can help you? That he’s not gonna turn on you the second he has the opportunity? That’s how men like him roll, yeah? They use you for what they need and then you’re done.” Frank observed, turning slightly as a rustle comes from the bed, Vladimir getting to his feet; though he didn’t get too far with the IV lines, 

“Wilson Fisk smashed my brother’s head with car door until he had no head _left_ , mudak. Do you really think anything matters to me more than vengeance for my brother?” Vladimir posed, his tone icy with suppressed anger, “Do you really think I am kind of man that would let that go unpunished? You want to kill me? Fine. We will play once Fisk is dealt with, see who will kill who, da? But this moment, focus is on Fisk. Needs to be on Fisk. Yours. Mine. His.” Vlad gestures to Matt, “Or you? Have bigger problem of missing forest for trees.”

“He’s not wrong, Frank.” Matt agreed quietly, and Frank laughed a bit,

“Nah, he is. I see the forest just fine. I just prefer to set the whole damn thing on fire instead of cuttin em down with a chainsaw one at a time.”

“From where I’m standing I don’t know that you’ve got the choice.” Supplied Claire, “Look, I’m not exactly fond of this borscht-eating shithead myself; he and his buddies got ahold of me and beat the shit out of me for information. Would I _love_ to turn this damn thing on him instead of you? Sure.” She admits honestly, “But I also know what Wilson Fisk is capable of. I’ve seen it firsthand. If you really want to help? _Really_ want to do good for this city? Then, much as I hate to admit it… Vladimir’s right.” She lowers the shotgun, shifting it in her grip to extend its stock to him, ignoring the obvious tension that went through Matt and Vladimir as she did, “You’ve got a choice, Frank. Make it a good one.”

Frank regarded Claire as she spoke, then blinked as she offered the gun back to him with her final statement, studying her a moment before taking it back. He let out a slow breath through his nose, his free hand coming up to rub its palm along his head in a thoughtful manner before he sighed. If he was honest, they all had a point to a degree. While he usually didn’t have an issue killing the rats to get to the cats in charge, in this case, letting one keep squealing for a while seemed to be the best rational option. After all, Vlad wasn’t wrong; he could always kill him later. Wouldn’t take much, wouldn’t be hard to find. He puts the sawed off back to the interior of his jacket, looking to Vladimir,

“Looks like it’s your lucky day, yeah? But you ain’t wrong. We deal with Fisk? Your ass is _mine_.” He commented, no small hint of threat in his voice to match his words, and the Russian smiled a little,

“We’ll see whose ass is whose, da? I do not die easy.”

“Wouldn’t be any fun if you did.” Replied Frank, turning, then, to Matt. “What’s the plan?”

* * *

Matt had been more than a little tense when Claire offered the shotgun to Frank, going almost completely rigid as she put an absolutely mind-blowing amount of trust in the other man’s sensibilities. He lets out a slow breath as his eyes close when Frank agrees to handle Fisk first, swallowing a little convulsively in relief. He smirks a little at the banter between Frank and Vladimir before he licks his lips a bit, considering Frank’s question as Vladimir made his way — with Claire’s insistent, unyielding guidance, much to the Russian’s obvious annoyance — back to the bed to lie back down.

“I’m part of a legal firm; small, but we’re good. We’re building a case against Fisk as we speak. We only need a couple of more dots to connect and we’ve got the son of a bitch.”

“I thought you said he had judges and shit in his pocket? How you plannin on lockin him up if he’s gonna get a dirty judge?” Frank questioned incredulously, and Matt smiled,

“By getting rid of the people in his pocket.” Replied Matt, and Frank’s head tilted a little,

“A RICO?”

“A RICO.” Matt agreed with a bit of a grin, “Take all the pieces off the board and check the King.”

“Not a bad plan. Would really be easier to just kill the son of a bitch though.” Frank reasons, and Vladimir lets out a snort,

“If anyone is to kill Fisk, it will be me.” Remarked the Russian,

“ _No one_ is killing him.” Matt stated firmly, “We do this right. By the book. And make sure Wilson Fisk doesn’t see the light of day for a very, very long time.” He turns to Frank, “We could use your help. Vladimir’s given me a good amount of information, but we need eyes on Fisk while my law firm finishes putting the case together. Where he goes, when he goes, what he does, who he’s with. Think you can pull that off?”

Frank lets out a sound somewhere between offense and amusement, “Who you think you’re talkin to? You really think I can’t manage a tail like that?”

“No offense meant; historically you just tend to do that with a gun aimed at the person you’re tailing. Bit different this time.” Matt reasoned, and Frank shrugged a shoulder,

“Yeah, alright, fair enough. I’ll get on it. You. Just make sure you keep your pet Russian in check in the meantime, yeah?” Frank replied, starting to make for the door,

“Suck my dick, mudak; I am no one’s _pet_.” Remarked Vladimir in irritation, making Frank chuckle,

“Yeah, keep tellin yourself that.” He called from the foyer, exiting the apartment, and Claire lets out an audible sigh of relief as she sits on the bed,

“That was… Intense.” She comments, scrubbing her face a little, “You have insanely good timing, Matt, for the record.” She adds, and Matt laughs a little,

“Just got lucky.” He replied, shedding his jacket and hanging it up as he goes about taking off his tie, “Karen, Foggy — if I can convince him — and I will get started on putting the information together tomorrow. They’ve got a funeral to deal with today… I _was_ planning on going but that got a little sidetracked, obviously. Man they’re gonna be pissed.”

“A funeral?” Questioned Claire before she notices the blood seeping into Matt’s shirt, “You’ve torn your stitches again. Sit down.” She sighs, going to her bag to get the shit she’d need to repair the wound — again. Matt blinks a bit, feeling at his torso before he sighs, nodding and moving to sit on the bed where Claire had vacated, unbuttoning his shirt and shedding it to be cleaned up later,

“Yeah, Ben Urich. He was murdered, and we’re pretty damn sure it was Fisk who did it. He was strangled to death in his home office.”

“Good god… why?” Claire asked, sitting beside him and removing the bandage over the wound on his rib to get to work on it,

“He and Karen paid a visit to Fisk’s mother, from what I understand. Given that Fisk didn’t go after Karen, too, I’m assuming he told him he was the only one there to protect her.” He sighs deeply, “He was a good man, had a lot of passion, a lot of convictions, and a lot of wisdom to go with it. I’m gonna miss him.”

“I’m sorry you guys lost him, he sounds amazing.” She replies, finishing with his wound and bandaging it, “ _Try_ to make this one last a little longer this time?” She teases, and Vladimir snorts,

“Good luck.”

“Bite me, Vlad.” Replied Matt, though with no hostility in his tone, getting up and moving to his phone to get ahold of Foggy — or at least Karen — and make his apologies, as well as set plans for tomorrow. Tonight, though; tonight he was going to ensure his armor would be ready for tomorrow. He was going to need it, he was almost certain of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vy dumayete, chto sobirayetes' ubit' menya? - You think you’re going to kill me?  
> Idi trakhni sebya, mudak - Go fuck yourself, asshole


	12. The Devil’s in the Details Pt. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After coming to a tentative agreement to put aside personal differences for the moment, Foggy, Karen and Matt had met that night to discuss the case against Fisk. Afterward, Foggy had called Marci and asked her to meet him at Josie’s; Matt acquired his armor the same night, and went to the gym the next morning to vent some frustration, where he and Foggy finally pull their heads out of their asses, Frank was keeping a weather eye on the whereabouts of the man in question until that hammer dropped, and Vladimir and Claire begin to reach an understanding. The light was beginning to shine at the end of this particular tunnel, but the question remained whether it was daylight or an oncoming train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter 12 was going to be the last chapter, however it was getting so incredibly long, I’ve decide to split it into two parts. Part one will be posted now, and part two as soon as I finish it. 
> 
> Also, LOTS of canon dialogue in part one; some modified to suit fic canon.

Foggy was relieved to see Marci sitting at a table in Josie’s, moving to sit with her, “Hey, sorry; couldn’t flag a cab.” He commented as he shed his jacket and sat, and Marci smiled a little,

“You know that buffalo wouldn’t make me a vodka martini? I had to settle for just vodka.”

“Oh, yeah, she can be, um… you gotta ask nice.”

“I pay nice. That should be enough.”

“You want a martini? I’ll get you a martini.” Replied Foggy, starting to stand until Marci held out a hand to stop him,

“What I want is to not be in this petri dish a second longer than I have to. Why are we meeting here?” She asked, and Foggy took in a deep breath before he sighed,

“I need your help.”

“My help?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s disappointing. I thought this was a booty call.” Marci replied, taking a drink of her vodka,

“You remember the tenement case, that I came to Landman and Zack about?”

“Yeah, Mrs. Cardenas.” She replied and Foggy chuckled a little,

“I thought you were going to say ‘Carnitas’ again.”

“I’m not a _complete_ asshole. I heard about what happened to her.”

“Yeah, but that’s only half the story. Her tenement was just one building that was being targeted. There are dozens of others across Hell’s Kitchen. Maybe even hundreds.” Replied Foggy and Marci blinked, her gaze and tone confused as she replied,

“Targeted by who?” She inquired, and Foggy lowered his voice to a whisper,

“Wilson Fisk.” He replied and Marci closed her eyes a moment in disbelief, starting to stand,

“Ok, I gotta go.”

“Wait, just wait a second.”

“We represent Fisk. I can’t talk to you about this.”

“Then don’t talk. Just. Read.” Began Foggy, producing a file folder from his bag, “Five minutes, please.” He added, and Marci hesitated a moment before resuming her seat,

“Five minutes. And only because you were actually really good the other night.” She replied, opening the folder and starting to read its contents.

Foggy sat in silence while Marci read, her expression growing more shocked, more dumbfounded the longer she read, and after nearly twenty minutes, he spoke,

“That was longer than five minutes.”

“Where did you get all this…?”

“Some of it Matt and I turned up working the tenement case.”

“And the rest of it?” She asked, and Foggy sighed a little,

“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.” He replied and Marci’s eyes went wide as she stared at him, her voice almost a whisper as she spoke,

“You’re working with that prick that blew up half the city?!”

“You read what’s in there. He didn’t do it. It was _your_ client.” He pointed out and Marci scoffed,

“ _My_ client has been all over the news trying to _help_ this city.” She retorted,

“So, there’s nothing that’s been going on at Landman and Zack? Nothing that doesn’t feel right with Fisk?” He questioned, and Marci looked down a moment,

“Fisk is one of our most billable clients, along with Owlsley at Silver and Brent. You know, I could lose my job just sitting here? Maybe even get disbarred.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Foggy pointed out, and Marci was silent, “You remember what I said when I came in to Landman and Zack to discuss the case? About how you used to have a soul?” He questioned and Marci scoffed, “That wasn’t just a _jab,_ Marci. I remember how much you cared. About the law, about what was right. Before the clothes and the expense account, scrambling to make partner.”

“You’re asking me to commit career suicide.”

“I’m asking you to trust me. One way or another, Fisk, Owlsley, anyone connected with what they’ve been doing, they’re going to get what’s coming to them. There are going to be some hard questions about how much Landman and Zack knew, and when they knew it. This is your chance to get out in front of that… and take your soul back.”

* * *

After meeting Karen and Foggy at Nelson & Murdock, Matt had gone to acquire his armor. Melvin had warned him it wasn’t ready yet, and informed him of its weak spots. He had put it away in his apartment, gotten some sleep on the couch, and gone to the gym early the next day, needing to vent a little.

He was working the heavy bag when Foggy came in, slowly registering his presence, and he gradually stopped, panting heavily a moment before he spoke,

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Known about your outlet for a while.” Replied Foggy, “I didn’t say anything because I thought it had something to do with your dad. Now I know better.” He added, and Matt nodded, resuming his strikes to the bag, Foggy speaking again before long, “Thought you’d be out punching people in the head, or whatever you do.”

“I was. Paid Ben’s editor a visit.”

“Ellison?”

“Yeah. Karen thinks he’s working for Fisk.”

“Did he talk?”

“No. Never got close.” Replied Matt, panting softly from exertion as he gave his fists a break for the moment, “Wife and kid picked him up outside the office. Try again tomorrow night.” He added, resuming working the bag as Foggy watched.

“Looking like you have some anger issues. Wanna talk about it?”

“You’re not my priest, Foggy. I told Karen this was my fault, all of this between you and me.” Commented Matt as he unwrapped his fists, and Foggy nods before he sighs,

“I just nodded. You could tell that, right?”

“Yeah, I could tell.”

“I got a call from Marci.”

“From Marci?”

“She’s been helping me. Copying files from Landman and Zack on the quiet. Whole stacks of documents of their dealings with Fisk, and Owlsley at Silver and Brent.” Foggy jumps slightly as Matt’s fist comes down on the edge of the boxing ring,

“Ben is dead, Foggy, because he got dragged into this. And now you’re doing the same with your ex.”

“We’re being careful.”

“This has to stop. Fisk has to…” Matt sighs, scrubbing his face before setting about putting his jacket on, “I have to stop this. Before there’s no one left to bury.”

“Matt. Matt! Last time you went after Fisk, you were half dead. More than half! You go after him in the mask again, he might kill you. Or you might kill him! Which would probably have the same effect on someone as Catholic as you are!”

“What am I supposed to do? How do I stop him?” Matt questioned in frustration, though the irony that he was having this conversation with Foggy after being so steadfast in the ‘We’re not killing Fisk’ column when it came to Vladimir and Frank wasn’t lost on him,

“By using the _law_ , Matt. Like you told me and Karen to do. That’s how we take him down.”

“We?” Questioned Matt, softly, “I thought Nelson and Murdock were over.”

“There’s nothing I want more than to find a way back to where we were, but… I don’t know if we can.”

“No, we can’t. But maybe we can find a way to move forward, Foggy.”

* * *

Vladimir had been half-asleep when he’d heard Matt come in, watching what he could see of him as he moved a large case into the locked closet beneath his stairs before he stripped down to sleep on the couch. He let out a quiet hum to himself, curious what the other man was up to, but fatigue pulled him back under again, the curiosity forgotten in his body’s demand for rest as it healed.

He stirred when he felt a gentle pull on his skin near the wound in his chest, his eyes half-opening to regard Claire as she removed the bandage to check the wound, though when she saw he was awake her movements became less tentative, and Vladimir realized she had been actually trying to not wake him,

“How does it look?” He questioned semi-blearily, his brain a bit slow to shift out of neutral,

“Better. I think the patch job is holding. I’m not seeing any signs of infection, either.”

“Good.” He replied, shifting slightly to get more comfortable, noting the thinness of the dark outside of the windows, and Matt’s absence from the couch, “What time is it?” He questioned,

“About 4. I just got off work. Where’s Matt…?” Asked Claire, her gaze briefly glancing to his face before back to what she was doing,

“I don’t know.” He replied, frowning slightly, “He was here, earlier. Not sure what time. Went to sleep on couch.”

“Well I doubt he slept long, knowing him. Think if he ever got a full night’s sleep that wasn’t induced by blood loss and trauma, I’d shit bricks.” She remarks, and Vladimir laughs softly,

“Da, he is stubborn. I would say like mule, but I think that would be an insult to the animal.” He remarks, and Claire smiles,

“You’re not wrong.” She glances back to him as she finishes bandaging the wound, “How’s your pain level? And don’t give me any of that hard-ass Russian-Feels-No-Pain bullshit. I need to know for real.” She added, and Vladimir couldn’t help the twitch of his lips in amusement at the frank nature of her remarks,

“Is not bad. Aches, more than hurts, unless I move wrong.”

“Mm, what number, between one and ten, with one being no pain and ten being the worst pain imaginable?” She asked, and Vlad hummed a little,

“A three.” He remarks, and Claire studies him a moment as if skeptical before nodding in acceptance,

“Good. If that changes, let me know.”

“I will.” Vladimir replies, watching her as she busied herself tidying up the mess from changing his bandage, though the movements were half-distracted, “You’re worried.” He comments, in an almost off-hand tone, “About Matt?” He questioned, and she sighed, binning the garbage before she leaned against the wall near the bed, crossing her arms in front of her,

“He almost got killed the other night. He’s still wounded, still… a damn mess. Of course I’m worried. There isn’t a night that goes by that I’m not terrified he’s going to get himself killed.” She confesses, more honestly than she’d intended, and Vladimir nods, working his way to sit upright against the headboard,

“He has armor, I think. Brought case with him when he came back, locked it away. But worry is… not unfounded.” He admits, “He lets anger cloud judgment sometimes.”

“No shit.” She replied, half-sarcastically, “ _That’s_ what worries me. I mean, this time of night, I’d expect him to be home resting, not out… being him.” She continued, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and Vladimir chuckles a little,

“He knows no other way to be. Perhaps he is just working with Froggy and Karen, to build case against Fisk.” He supplied optimistically, and she blinks at him, clearly half-amused at ‘Froggy’ before she shook her head,

“I don’t know, maybe. But you’d think they would have the good sense to be sleeping about now, too.”

“Good sense seems in short supply these days.”

“Says the Russian who nearly got killed taking on a squad of men single-handed.” She remarks with a smirk, and a small smile crossed his features as he looked at her,

“Who lived?” He inquired, a hint of smugness creeping into his tone, making her laugh a little,

“Fair point.” She replied, watching him as he shifted again to get more comfortable against the headboard. Claire moves to the other side of the bed briefly, snagging the other pillow before returning, “Here, lean forward.” She instructs, and he does as bid, humming as she placed the pillow between himself and the headboard, leaning back into it as she moved her hands away, a soft sigh falling from his lips,

“Spasibo. Is much better.” He remarked, letting his eyes close a moment, and she took the opportunity to study him a moment,

“You’re worried, too, aren’t you?” She questioned softly, sitting on the edge of the bed, and he opened his eyes again as he raised a brow,

“Why would I be worried?”

“Don’t give me that. You think I’m that oblivious? You two have… something. I don’t know. You’ve become friends, or at least the closest to it you’re likely to get any time soon.” Claire points out, and Vladimir frowns as he considers that.

Had they, really? He had to admit, he found his desire to kill the other man fading as time went on; well, unless he was being particularly irritating. But ‘not wanting to brutally murder each other’ wasn’t exactly what he would base the grounds of friendship upon. Still, whether he liked it or not, some part of himself had grown to care about the thick-skulled brunet. He wasn’t exactly sure when it had happened, or why. But the fact it had was undeniable. And moreover, he knew Matt felt the same way; had felt it in the genuine concern in his voice he had tried — and failed — to hide when he was bleeding out in the bathtub, in the way his hand would tremble a little as he cared for him to the best of his abilities. In that unexpected, gentle sympathy he had extended in their discussion about Anatoly.

Good god. They were _friends._ He wanted to smack his head into the headboard, repeatedly, as that realization dawned upon him, half-disgusted with the very idea, and it must have shown on his face, as Claire had started to laugh,

“What, did you not notice?” She questioned between soft chuckles as she’d started to sober a little, “Just kinda creep up on you a little, there?” She adds, and he side-eyes her almost venomously, which only seemed to amuse her further,

“We are —“

“Oh no, don’t you _dare_ try to say you’re not friends. I saw that look.” Claire points out, and Vladimir heaves a heavy, half-irritated sigh,

“Shut up.” He remarked, more petulantly than he had intended, making her laugh all over again, taking a moment to quiet herself before she spoke,

“It’s a good thing, Vladimir. It means that just maybe you’re not the soulless prick I thought you were.”

* * *

Frank had been discretely tailing Fisk since he was assigned the job, had watched as he went into buildings and when he came back out. Of all the assignments, this one? This one was flat out boring. Fisk was smart enough to keep his meetings discrete, in a location that wasn’t easily surveilled. Whatever he was up to, though, it seemed to be big. Like he was putting some sort of plan in motion. But damned if Frank knew what, when, or how.

He hadn’t been oblivious to the fact Madame Gao was in the wind, or that Owlsley had flat out disappeared — and was likely dead. He knew, as well, that his assistant, James Wesley, had been killed. Big man had to do everything himself, these days. He had tailed him to a high-end restaurant where he met a surprisingly beautiful brunette and had a late dinner, watched the two eat and talk, the borderline-reverent way Fisk would regard her or touch her hand, kiss her cheek. It would have been endearing if he wasn’t aware what Wilson was capable of. He wondered if the woman knew, if she was aware what sort of man she was dining with. Part of him hoped she didn’t, but he knew better.

Once the pair had finished dining, they retired to the building where Fisk’s apartment was housed, and Frank settled in his car to wait out the night, dozing from time to time. Come morning, he repeated the long, boring process. His phone rang that evening, and he looks to it, recognizing Matt’s number,

“Yeah?”

“Anything so far?”

“You know, for a criminal mastermind? God this guy is boring as shit to tail. He’s gone a few different places, stayed varying amounts of time, but he’s been smart about it. Secure buildings, hard to get an eye or an ear on who he’s meeting with or why.” Frank replied, and Matt let out a soft sigh,

“Yeah, I figured, honestly. He’s been scrambling, almost, since he lost Wesley and since Vanessa was poisoned.”

“Vanessa? That her name? Saw them havin dinner last night.” Frank paused, “What about your end? You turnin up anything?”

“I think so. Foggy and I met with a NYPD officer, he’s a good guy, on the straight and narrow. While we were talking with him, I heard another officer — one that worked for Fisk — mention something about looking for Detective Hoffman. He killed his partner, on Fisk’s orders, far as I can tell. Not sure who’s got him squirreled away, but Karen, Foggy and I are working on figuring out where he’s holed up. We think we’ve got a lead. I’m going to check it out now.”

“In the mask, I assume?”

“Of course. It’s gotten an upgrade though.”

“Yeah? Hope it’s got some armor on it, bad as you got your ass handed to you.” He points out, and Matt chuffs softly,

“Yeah, it does. Not completely, not yet, but it was something of a rush. Fisk is going to try to bolt when the hammer drops. I needed to be ready for that. I doubt the cops we know about are the only people with guns in his pocket in the city.”

“Yeah, no shit. You watch yourself out there, man. You need backup, you let me know.”

“You too, Frank; and thanks.” Matt replied, ending the call.

Frank sighed softly, tapping his phone against his lips a moment. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t more than tempted to put a bullet in Fisk and be done with it. But he knew that that would make the man into a martyr to the people in the city still ignorant of what he was actually up to. He hated to agree that doing things by the book was the right way, this time. But it was. This time. Next time? That book went out the window.

* * *

Matt had returned home just ahead of dark, finding Vladimir on the couch rather than still abed and Claire in the kitchen making dinner. Vladimir looked over as he made his way through the foyer,

“Where have you been?” He questioned, and Matt’s lips twitched; he sounded like an annoyed parent when their kid had broken curfew,

“Work. Looking into shit with Fisk. Got a solid lead.” Matt replied, unlocking his closet and extracting the trunk from within to unlock as well, setting to disrobing once he had — it wasn’t like both of them hadn’t already seen him in his underwear, after all.

“A solid lead that, apparently, requires you being in the mask?” Asked Claire, moving toward the living room to regard him,

“It does. Owlsley has Detective Hoffman stashed away; Fisk’s men are looking for him with a fine-toothed comb. I need to find him before they do.” He replied, bending down to acquire his new suit, starting to put it on, and a momentary silence met his words before Vlad spoke,

“Is that the armored suit?” He questioned, and Matt heard the squeak of the couch springs as he got to his feet, and his bare feet as they padded across the floor,

“It is. Got it last night. It’s got some weak spots, but it was the best Melvin could do in a rush. The important places are covered.” He replied, putting on his gloves and boots before he picked up his helmet, putting it on,

“Whoa.” Breathed Claire, looking him over, and Vladimir reached up, putting his hand between the horns on Matt’s head, a quiet chuckle escaping him,

“It suits you, malen’kiy dya’vol.” He remarked softly, letting his hand drop,

“It does.” Claire agreed, “Plus, as a bonus, it’s intimidating as hell.” Matt smiled at her last remark,

“That’s the idea.” Matt replied, moving to get his batons, putting them in their holster,

“Just. Be careful, Matt?” Claire requested gently, “Please.”

“I will. Be back before you know it.” He replied, moving for the stairs, feeling Vladimir’s eyes on him as he went,

“Would that be your usual careful?” Questioned the Russian, a hint of amusement in his tone, and Matt smiled over his shoulder at him,

“Pretty much. But now with armor.” He commented, and Vladimir snorted a laugh,

“Something tells me the armor will be more careful than you.” Vladimir mused, and Matt grinned, pausing halfway out the door,

“Well, that works for everyone then, doesn’t it?” Matt questioned rhetorically and continued on his way.

It didn’t take him long to get where he needed to go, though the sound of gunfire quickly reached his ears. He made his way inside the building, making short work of the men in uniform attempting to kill Hoffman. Once they were dealt with, he moved to the table where a stunned and rattled Hoffman was sat, playing solitaire. He takes his seat,

“You have an opportunity here Detective. By turning evidence on Fisk, you can set things right — if that’s what you want. If not, you can sit here playing with yourself until Fisk sends more men here to kill you.” Matt commented, and Hoffman whimpered softly; Matt could hear his heart racing, pounding, could smell the fear and blood on him from the slaughter that had just occurred, “Decide.”

“It won’t make a difference. He owns the cops! I’ll be dead before I can testify.”

“Not all of them. Turn yourself in to Brett Mahoney. You can trust him. And he knows a couple of lawyers that can’t be bought. They can help you.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Thanks for the tip.” Hoffman replied, standing, and Matt flipped over the table before punching him, Hoffman hitting the ground,

“I’ll be following you to make sure you get to the precinct alive. Try to run, try to do anything other than what I just told you, you’ll wish I’d never saved you from that bullet.” He whispered, turning and walking away.

He followed Hoffman all the way to the precinct, making sure he reached it in one piece, and he angled an ear toward the building in question as he went inside, hearing Hoffman speak not long afterward,

“I need to make a statement.”

Matt smiled and stood from his perch, making his way back home to change and get back to the office. They were about to get damn busy down at Nelson & Murdock.

* * *

Claire had the night off work, which she was frankly glad for; she was having trouble thinking beyond the pit of worry gnawing in her stomach that only seemed to grow with every minute Matt was gone. He’d already been gone almost two hours, she had no idea when he’d get back. 

“He will be fine.” Remarked Vladimir, moving to lean against the far side of the kitchen counter, and she looked over her shoulder at him from her place at the stove,

“Yeah, maybe. I hope so.” She sighed. God she hated this. She felt helpless, sitting there, just. Waiting. Cooking was a distraction but it also made her homesick. It was one of her mother’s recipes — Caldo de Pescado. It was a cool night, and something warm, hearty and comforting was, she figured, right up their alley tonight.

“He will. That stubbornness I think does more to keep him alive than anything.”

“Like you?” Asked Claire in a light tease, and Vladimir let out a soft chuckle,

“Da. Like me. Like you, too, I think.” He observed, “You have stubbornness about you, too. Just for different things, different reasons.”

“Mm, I never did like being a doormat. I have to have my head, you know? It’s gotten me in hot water more than once at work.”

They both startle a little when the upstairs door opens and shuts, and both she and Vladimir moved from the kitchen to the living room, a flood of relief washing over her as Matt descends the stairs,

“How’d it go?”

“Better than expected. Hoffman is at the precinct. He’s safe. Brett’s going to be calling Foggy any minute now; I need to change.” He replied, an edge gone from his voice that Claire belatedly realized had been a betrayal of how tense the entire situation had made him. Now, now the end was in sight. He could breathe again.

“Good, malen’kiy dya’vol. Then Fisk will go to prison?” Questioned Vladimir, moving to give Matt a hand getting out of his suit, which the brunet seemed grateful for,

“Then Fisk will go to prison. Along with every cop, every judge, every government official Fisk has ever bribed.” Replied Matt, satisfaction evident in his voice, and Claire smiles broadly,

“That… is the best damn news I’ve heard in a long time, Matt.” She comments, and Matt smiles at her,

“You and me both.” He replied, moving, then, to change into his suit, no more than finishing before his phone began to chime, ‘Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.’ “Time to go to work. Don’t wait up.”

* * *

The next evening, Claire and Vladimir sat side by side as they watched the news about Senator Cherryh’s arrest, the corruption at Landman and Zack and the NYPD; Fisk’s cover was completely blown. Vladimir couldn’t help a soft laugh of satisfaction, and Claire smiled,

“This. Is just beautiful.” She commented, and he nodded in agreement,

“Da. Is about time that fat shit gets what’s coming to him.” Vladimir replied, letting out a sigh that was mingled delight and relief. He knew he had shit with Frank that would inevitably need resolved. But this… was a weight off of him. It was true, the man wasn’t dead, and he still dearly wished he was. But it was something. It was justice for his brother. Now, he knew, his brother could rest easy, knowing the man that killed him was facing the music. “Makes getting shot worth it.”

“Which time?” Teased Claire, and he smiled,

“All of them. Tólja can rest now that Fisk will face justice. And so can I. For a while, anyway.”

“Tólja?” Claire questions, looking over at him,

“My brother, Anatoly. Fisk… he killed him.”

“God.. I’m sorry, Vladimir. That must have been… well, hard seems like an understatement, really.” She remarked, her tone sympathetic. In truth, over the last couple of days, her animosity toward him had begun to fade. She still kept her distance to a degree, was a little jumpy around him, but he noticed she no longer looked at him like she was plotting new and unusual ways to kill him, and that was an improvement, he figured.

“It was. It still is. Always together, Tólja and me, since we were kids. We grow up together, fight together.” He chortles, “Even go to prison together. We were rarely apart for more than a day. Even then we spoke on the phone, or through text. Always kept in touch.” He lets out a quiet sigh, his brows furrowing a little, “Now… is like I am missing a part of myself, like a limb was amputated.”

Why was he telling her this shit? He had no idea. It was just coming out of his mouth, whether he wanted it to or not — and really, he didn’t. Feelings, especially painful ones, were things he preferred to keep to himself. But something about her seemed to inspire his confidence; maybe it was her honesty, or her compassion in spite of her personal feelings toward him. He wasn’t sure.

“I can’t imagine what that feels like, how hard it has to be.” She shifted on the couch to face him, tucking one foot under its opposite thigh, her hands settling on her lower leg, “I mean, I understand grief. I’ve… had a lot of it. But to lose someone you’re _that_ close to?” She shakes her head, sighing softly, “Awful doesn’t come close.” She finished, and Vlad nodded a little, his gaze studying the tattoos on one of his hands a moment before he clears his throat,

“No, it doesn’t. But nothing does.”

“No wonder you’re so pissed off. I would be, too.” Claire replies, and Vlad smiles a little,

“Is one thing you can count on with me. I am almost always angry about something. But that? Da. That is a new level of anger. I have never felt hate for a man like I do Wilson Fisk.”

“I can understand that.” She puts her hand on his arm, a gentle coax for him to look at her, which he does, after a moment, “But be careful, Vladimir. Hate like that? It can consume you. Turn you into something you don’t even recognize anymore. And I’d really hate for you to turn into something like that after I’m just starting to decide I might not _totally_ dislike you.” She smirks a bit with her last words, and he chuckles, nodding as he put his hand over hers a moment,

“I will do my best.”

* * *

Fisk stalked through his apartment, talking on the phone with one of his men, “Make the arrangements, wait for my call!” He instructed as he hung up, and Vanessa approached from where she was watching the news,

“What they’re saying on the news…”

“They’re coming for me, Vanessa.” He spoke softly, putting his hands on her arms,

“So we have to leave now.”

“It’s too late. There’s nothing we can do.”

“No!”

“There’s nothing that we can do to keep this from happening. Nothing.” He replied, gently but insistently, leaning down to look her in the eye, and Vanessa let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a half-panicked pant, “I need you to do something for me. Listen, very carefully.”

He had just finished explaining the plans he’d spent the past two days putting in order when the FBI arrived downstairs, “Do you understand everything I just told you?” He questioned, and she nodded,

“Yes.”

“There’s one more thing.” He began as banging on the door resonated through the apartment,

“Federal agents!” A voice called, and he sighed, looking back to Vanessa,

“I don’t have a lot of time.” He added, procuring an engagement ring from his pocket and holding it to her as the agents burst through the door,

“Wilson Fisk, you’re under arrest for racketeering, you have the right to remain silent—“ An agent spoke, and Fisk ignored him as he took Vanessa’s hands, tuning out his Miranda rights,

“I want to ask you… Vanessa…” He was somewhat cut off when she kissed him passionately, and when they separated he continued, “You are my heart. You’re everything.” He spoke as the agents pulled him away, “I love you Vanessa!” He finished as he was escorted out of his apartment and downstairs, ignoring the the press as his handcuffs were adjusted and he was put in the back of the FBI van.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spasibo - thanks/thank you  
> Malen’kiy dya’vol - little devil  
> Tólja - diminutive of Anatoly  
> Caldo de Pescado - Fish soup/stew.


	13. The Devil’s in the Details, Pt. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson Fisk escapes. Can Matt get to him before Frank?

Matt, Foggy and Karen were celebrating in Nelson & Murdock as Fisk’s arrest played on the news. They talked, laughed a bit, just enjoying their success, the closure of Fisk’s arrest. They toasted Ben, Elena, all that had been hurt by Fisk as they listened to the news.

Then the news reported that Fisk’s convoy had stopped for an unknown reason — and continued on to describe the assailants that exited a truck, firing on the officers escorting Fisk’s transport. Karen slammed the laptop shut, the sound of it making Matt flinch slightly,

“Jesus we were idiots, weren’t we? Sitting here celebrating, thinking it would be _that_ easy with a man like him.” She spoke, putting on her coat and picking up her purse as she strode to the door where Foggy and Matt were standing, preparing to leave as well,

“Let’s get out of here before they close down the streets or something.” Replied Foggy, and the three of them went downstairs, Karen flagging a cab,

“Get her home.” Matt instructed Foggy,

“No, no, where are you going? We’re not leaving you.” Protested Karen,

“Back to my place to make some calls, see what I can find out.”

“We’ll drop you.” Karen retorted,

“You live on the other side of town. I’ll be alright.” Matt pointed out, only just keeping his mild exasperation out of his voice,

“Hang on, I’ll get him a cab.” Foggy told Karen, closing the door as she spoke,

“Wait, Foggy! —“

Matt moved to try and hail a taxi, “Taxi!” He called over the sounds of sirens in the city as Foggy approached him, and Matt turned toward him,

“You heard what’s going on out there. You can’t go up against that in your black pajamas.”

“I won’t be.”

“Matt!” Began Foggy in irritation and Matt cut him off,

“I know I haven’t earned it, not yet anyway, but I’m asking you to trust me, Foggy. I know what I’m doing.” Replied Matt, his tone urgent but sincere, and after a beat, Foggy nodded,

“Alright.” He replied, flagging a taxi for Matt, “Go be a hero. Just don’t get killed doing it, okay?” He requested as Matt climbed into the vehicle, closing the door.

“Where you headed?” Inquired his driver, and Matt gave him his home address, settling in for the short ride.

When he made it into his apartment he was unsurprised to note both Vladimir and Claire on their feet, Claire’s hands over her mouth and raw, barely-suppressed rage radiating off of the Russian,

“Do you see this?!” Vladimir questioned, his voice nearing a shout as he wheeled around to regard Matt, “You say do it by law and do you see how well that works!?” He snaps and Matt sighed, moving for the closet beneath the stairs,

“Vladimir. I don’t have the time right now.” Matt remarked in mild annoyance, “I need to get to Fisk before Frank.” He added, and Vladimir scoffed, the sound torn between anger and disbelieving amusement,

“Why stop him, hm? We try it your way. Maybe now is time to try it ours.”

“No!” Shouted Matt, finally losing his patience, making Claire jump in the process as Vladimir froze in his tracks, having been approaching him, and Matt exhaled a slow breath through his nose as he put on his armor, “I got this, Vladimir. Fisk will be in prison where he belongs, I promise you that.” He puts on his gloves and boots before turning to him, closing the few feet between them and putting his hand on his shoulder, “I just. I need you to trust me. Just a little bit more, just a little bit longer. Can you do that…? Please.” He requests, softening his tone slightly, and after a long moment of Vladimir searching his features, he let out a heavy sigh, turning away,

“Fine.” The Russian replied, though clearly displeased with it just the same, “You… just make sure you are as good as your word, malen’kiy dya’vol. Or I will go after him _myself._ ”

“The hell you will.” Commented Claire, absently, her eyes glued to the TV, and Matt smirks a little before he turns his attention back to the agitated blond as he puts his helmet on,

“I will be, Volodya.” He replies, the diminutive slipping out of his mouth before he could stop it, having heard Anatoly refer to him as such more than once when he was eavesdropping, and Vladimir goes rigid for an instant as he looked over his shoulder at him, a strange expression over what he could make out of his features before the rigidity softened, and he nodded, his voice quiet as he replied,

“I will hold you to that.”

Matt made his way for Fisk as quickly as humanly possible, scaling buildings, leaping roofs, and more than once almost over-estimating his own abilities, only just making some of the larger gaps. But desperate times called for desperate measures. He climbed to the top of a taller building, listening intently to the police radio chatter, then tuning it out and moving on, trying to pinpoint Fisk’s location.

“Package is en route.” He overheard, “I say again, package is en route. ETA 18 minutes. Prepare for extraction.”

He started to move again, rapidly heading for the sound of the voice, picking up Fisk’s as well, and Vanessa before long, trying less to focus on their conversation and more on maintaining a location fix, working out where she was, where he was headed. He finally comes upon the truck, throwing a baton through its windshield, internally wincing slightly as the truck veers out of control and skids on its side. He picked up Frank’s heartbeat, unexpectedly — the man was across the way, his rifle fixed on Fisk, and Matt quickly dropped own onto the side of the truck to put himself between Frank and Fisk,

“You were right. What you told me over the radio that night.” Matt began, “Not everyone deserves a happy ending.” He concludes,

“You?” Fisk questioned in disbelief a heartbeat before gunfire pierced the side of the truck beneath Matt.

Matt moved quickly back out of the way before jumping off of the truck. He grabs his baton from the windshield and throws it, ricocheting off of a wall and back onto the truck to knock out the man shooting at him, catching the baton and taking off after Fisk, who had used the opportunity to try and escape, Matt cutting him off in a blind alley, and the other man turned to him, anger seething off of him as he spoke,

“I wanted to make this city something better than it is. Something beautiful! You took that away from me! You took everything!” He raged, “I’m gonna kill you!” He shouted, and Matt holstered his batons as he caught the faint sound of footfalls on the roof above, knowing it was Frank, watching, waiting, knowing the man had about enough hesitation.

“Take your shot.” Matt replied quietly to Fisk, parroting his own words back at him, and the man charged him like a raging bull as he roared. Everything melted into a blur, then, blows traded, blows dodged; though the blur cleared briefly when Fisk easily threw him into the side of a dumpster, and again into a wall with breathtaking ease before goading him to resume fighting. When he pulled a pipe on him, things got distinctly more painful, and he found himself overwhelmingly grateful for his armor as he hits him in the face with it, Matt deflecting and absorbing blows before he could get the pipe away. He groaned heavily as he was slammed onto the ground, dazing him more than he already was and knocking the wind out of him a bit, groaning in pain as Fisk beat him with his own baton,

“This city doesn’t deserve a better tomorrow! It deserves to drown in its filth! It deserves people like my father! People like you!” He raged as Matt blocked the blows as best he could with his arm guards, groaning with each blow that landed properly, listening for the rhythm in his swings. He had been just about to seize his arm when a gunshot split the air, blood splattering Matt’s face as Fisk howled in pain, the bullet cutting through his armor like a hot knife through butter. Matt’s blood ran cold for an instant as Fisk staggered, before the vigilante let out a breath of relief — a shoulder wound. Frank had shot him in the shoulder. He groans as he gets to his feet,

“This is my city. My family!” Matt growled before he went on the offensive, taking out his batons and striking fluidly with them; Fisk blocked or dodged a couple, but overwhelmingly, they hit their mark. He took Fisk to the ground, and Fisk laughed,

“You really think that this will… change anything? You think one man… in a silly little costume… will… will make a difference?” Fisk questioned, laughing again as Matt dropped his batons before charging him, leaping and driving a blow of his fist into his skull, knocking him unconscious.

He was panting raggedly as a police car pulled up, siring whirring before Brett exited the vehicle, “Police! Show me your hands!” He called. “Show me your hands! Do it! Show me your hands!” Matt gradually straightened to face him,

“I told you before, Sergeant. I’m not the bad guy.” Matt replied, and Brett straightened slightly,

“Holy shit, it’s you.”

“This man was a fugitive from the law, and I stopped him. We good?” Matt questioned, and Brett’s left hand moved to key the radio on his right shoulder,

“Fifteen Sergeant Central. Be advised, Wilson Fisk under K, north alley, four six and ten.” He spoke, gradually lowering his gun, and the dispatcher copied. Matt watched Brett cuff Fisk,

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Hey, so what am I supposed to call you when I file my report?” Brett questioned, turning to regard him as he easily scaled the fire escape above without reply.

Frank was long gone, as he’d expected, but it didn’t take him long to track him down, the Marine looking over his shoulder as he approached from the roof behind him,

“Nice duds.” Remarked Frank, cleaning his rifle, “Looked like you were in a hurt. Figured a little help might be a good thing.”

“Thank you.” Matt replies, sitting beside him a moment, still breathing a bit heavily in a mixture of pain and exertion,

“You know that Russian of yours ain’t got long to live.” Frank commented, conversationally, and Matt sighed,

“Does it really need to be that way?” He questioned, turning his head toward him, “He’s wounded and convalescing in the home of a daytime lawyer turned night time vigilante. How much of a threat do you really think he can be?”

“Oh it ain’t now that I’m worried about. It’s when he’s off that leash you got him on, Red.” Frank replied lightly, Matt blinking fractionally at the nickname as Frank reassembled his rifle, propping it at his side opposite Matt, “But you’re not wrong. For now, I got bigger fish to fry. Was just giving you fair warning, yeah? We played nice to get this shit dealt with. But that was it. That was the deal. He is officially on my list, Red. And nobody comes off of it until they’re in the ground.”

Matt sighed deeply. God he was too tired for this. He gets to his feet, turning to leave, but he stops, seemingly looking down at Frank,

“I really hope that’s not the case, Frank.” He whispers, “Because I’ve got enough enemies out here. I don’t need to add you to _that_ list; and that’s exactly what will happen the second you go after him.” He finished, feeling Frank turn his head toward him in mild surprise, but before he could respond, Matt was already gone, heading for his apartment. He needed a shower, a patch-up, and a fucking _drink._

* * *

Vladimir and Claire watched the news as new information regularly updated, Claire letting out a deep sigh of relief when it was announced Fisk was once more in custody, and though he was wounded, he would be seen to at the prison infirmary rather than invite another escape attempt by sending him to a civilian hospital.

“Thank god.” Sighed Claire, running a hand through her hair, resting her head back against the couch. “I hope we’re finally done with all of this shit.” She added, letting her eyes close, and Vlad found himself nodding in agreement,

“We can hope.” He agrees, looking over at her before he hums, “You should go home, rest. You’re exhausted.” He observed, and Claire chuckled dryly,

“No way. Not until Matt’s back and I know he’s in one piece.” She replied, though she yawned afterwards.

“We shouldn’t have long to wait.” He commented, knowing how quickly the man moved through the city, injured or not.

His words proved true when Matt walked through the upstairs door less than half an hour later; he was bloodied, and looked absolutely exhausted, but he didn’t seem severely injured, and Vladimir let out a soft breath of relief before he spoke,

“You kept your word.”

“I told you I would.” Matt replied, shedding his helmet and setting it on the arm of a chair before sinking down into it, resting his head against its high back, Claire rising from her seat and going into the bedroom to get her kit bag,

“Da, you did.” Vladimir agreed, watching the brunet as he rested. As Claire made her way back into the front of the apartment, he spoke again, “Should get out of the armor.” He pointed out, and Matt nodded wearily, getting back to his feet and working his way out of it before dropping back into the chair, Vladimir wincing a little at the plethora of bruises that were scattered across his torso,

“Jesus, Matt.” Said Claire, shaking her head and seeing to cleaning up the open wounds, “You look like you got in a fight with a _really_ pissed off bull.”

“I think I did.” Matt replied, tiredly. “Not entirely too sure I would have won if Frank hadn’t shot him in the shoulder when he was beating the shit out of me. He got me grounded, and wasn’t too inclined to let me up.”

Vladimir blinked, his brows raising a little, “He was there?”

“Yeah. Watched the whole thing. Part of me thinks he was waiting for an open shot, but he kept to our agreement.” He replied, and Vladimir considered that a moment,

“Does that mean I should prepare for another visit?”

“No.” Matt assured him, “At least not any time soon. According to him he has bigger things to worry about at the moment. That’s subject to change, but. For now, you’re safe. I made it clear I was determined to keep it that way.”

“Are you?” Vladimir questioned as Claire’s brows lifted slightly in mild surprise, and Matt nodded,

“I am.”

Claire finished cleaning Matt up, and the brunet made his weary way into the bathroom to take a shower, the woman watching after him a moment before turning to Vlad with her brows raised in something of a ‘see?’ Manner, and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“Shut up.” He echoed, making her smile.

* * *

In the days that followed the arrest of Wilson Fisk, both Matt and Vladimir healed from their respective wounds and injuries, something of a peace settling over the apartment as Claire frequently visited to ensure they were mending well, often spending a couple of hours to chat, have a beer, and occasionally either would cook or join them for dinner. Foggy and Karen, too, began to drop by as they both acclimated to Vladimir’s personality and the friendship that was growing between he and Matt. Neither of them understood it, not even a little bit, and didn’t pretend they did. But things were relaxed again, Nelson & Murdock was busier than ever, the media-brought fame having attracted a flurry of new clientele, and without the shadow of Wilson Fisk hanging over them, life was good again.

Frank Castle, on the other hand, was watching, waiting, and ever-vigilant in his designs for the criminal element of Hell’s Kitchen. Wilson Fisk wasn’t the only man who cast a long shadow, and Matt never forgot his ever-present threat. It would, inevitably, serve him well in the end. But for now, Frank was a thought at the back of his mind, a worry for another time. For now, he enjoyed the peace of the moment, cherishing it all the more in the knowledge that it would one day — likely soon — come to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malen’kiy Dya’vol - little devil  
> Volodya - diminutive of Vladimir


End file.
